


Rhapsody for Two

by fixomnia



Category: CSI: New York
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Crime Fighting, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fixomnia/pseuds/fixomnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A New York un-Fairytale. Three short years in the lives of two detectives trying to make a difference in the world. A literary love song to the memory of two of New York's fictional finest. Marked "M" for consistency, though most chapters are "T". This is the "Really Truly Finished, This Time For Real, I Promise" Version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Wings Necessary

RATING: This chapter's hovering at a "T", for some language and adult concepts.  
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.

\---------------------------------  
Chapter One  
No Wings Necessary  
\---------------------------------

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Ooh-wah, ooh-wah, cool, cool kitty  
Tell us about the boy from New York City  
Ooh-wah, ooh-wah c'mon kitty  
Tell us about the boy from New York City

\- The Manhattan Transfer, "Boy From New York City"

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"What else can you tell me?"

"How far back you wanna go? She was a real spitfire back in the day, but she's growed up since."

"Attitude?" Lt. Sythe asked. Extra baggage was not what he needed. Homicide was still reeling from the bombing that nearly took out one of their most solid men. He needed someone to direct some of the routine cases, someone experienced enough to jump into a team mid-crisis, and junior enough not to mind being handed the scutwork.

Detective Sergeant Dawkins, an affable black Mississipian, had stepped up to the plate when he got wind of Sythe's call for recommendations for a junior Detective to join Homicide on a six-month deployment. Young Jessie was kicking her heels in his General Investigations Section, Dawkins said, and was more than ready for a challenge. He'd knowed her since she was a raw recruit.

Sythe harnessed the urge to ask Dawkins to get to the _point_, sir. There weren't many minutes in the day he had to spend listening to stories, but Dawkins was usually worth his breath.

"Nah, she's steady. There was just the one time she lost it real bad. The Cadets in her troop used to call her The Princess, 'count of her daddy - an' her looks - an' I guess she had 'nough, 'cause one day she takes on the tough guy in the troop. Guy's an ex-Reservist, liked to think he was a manly man. After class one day, they're all out on the soccer field, blowin' off steam, an' he would not let up. So this li'l thing hollers sump'in French in his face, practices her hard control technique on him. Guy ends up with her knee print on his neck, an' his arm twist' so far up his back he was sore for a week. Li'l Jessie got herself grounded to barracks for a coupla days, but she never got called Princess, ever again. Like a cat puttin' a house dog in its place. She never had no problems after that, an' never looked to make any."

"How long ago was this?"

"Must be eight years now. Damn, time slips 'way, don't it? She made Detective li'l over a year ago. The old-fashioned way, long hours an' no favors. She gonna be a lifer or I'll eat my hat, no salt. Anyway, Lieutenant, I'll be sorry to see her go, but it's a fine chance for her. Six-month dee-ploy, you say?"

"That's what I'd like to offer. There's no telling how long Flack's going to be out, or - between us - if he's coming back. Good news is, he's out of the woods. There was some infection and pneumonia, the first few days, but they've cleared that up. Man's barely talking, and he's already offering bribes for meatball hoagies."

"That's good news. His momma and daddy must be thankin' the good Lord," Dawkins said warmly.

Sythe found it hard to think of the stern, august Donald Flack Sr. as 'Daddy' , but he agreed with the sentiment. "No telling yet about battle-shock or mobility. We'll just have to wait."

"Well, I think you found yo' girl, meantime. Angell's a fine officer. It's her call. I want her back, mind."

"She's another of your kids, huh, Dawkins?"

"All'a them are, Sythe. Ever' one. Just don't be tellin' _them_ that. College for three is enough."

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"He almost lost a leg, you know," her father said, "your new Lieutenant. Golan Heights, 1969, when he was a private. Found a land mine. Just a teenager."

"Jesus. And that didn't stop him signing on as a cop?"

"Never slowed him down, as far as I can tell. Ran marathons until a few years ago. Top you up?"

"No, thanks." Jess covered her glass as he wielded the cut-glass wine decanter. "You go ahead. So what do you know about this Flack character?"

Cliff sat back in his easy chair, the twin to the one in which Jess was seated side-saddle, her feet tucked under her. No matter how much of an adult she tried to be at her parents' house, somehow, she always ended up here, curled up in her father's study listening to him talk. True, in the last five years, he'd shared his Cabernet with her, along with his insight, but it still took an effort not revert back to her childhood role. Trying to impress him with some feat of daring, or calling him "_Papa_" when she was pleased with him

And there the pastoral vision ended, because Jess Angell had just outshot her father at their favourite outdoor range near the Hudson. Her punishment was to sit still and listen to another ripe and ribald installment of RCMP history, during the Quiet Revolution in Québec, and how political correctness and litigation had turned cops into babysitters. Cheap flattery still worked on him, though, and she'd patiently waited for a while before cutting in and asking him his learned advice on her new posting. He hadn't been fooled, but at least he'd been forthcoming.

"Senior or Junior?" he asked, swirling his wine glass prior to a sip.

"The son."

"Ahh. Blue-flamer. I taught his I&amp;I course, at the Academy. _He_ came back for the advanced modules, later on. Unlike someone I could mention."

Jess sighed. "Dad, I'm going to take it. Just not this second. I've done fine with the basic course."

Cliff chuckled, "There's a reason Don Flack's got a reputation for his suspect interviews, Jessie, that's all I'm saying. You want to work on the murder squad, you gotta learn you can't just play the tough-talk-trust line to get results. Going to have to learn some finesse and patience. You'll be interrogating some slippery characters, some of them a lot smarter than you. Or just plain psycho. Can't logic _them_ around."

"Okay, okay. What else? I want dirt."

"You'll have to wait for that till you get there. I can tell you one thing, though - he's as serious a cop as you're ever likely to meet. It's not his job. It's his life. It's who he is. It was there all over his face when he was just a lanky kid in a Cadet uniform. Just like his old man."

"Just like _my_ old man."

"Takes one to know one, I suppose." Jess wrinkled her nose in anticipation of it being pinched, and she was quickly proven correct. "Jess Angell, Homicide Detective, eh? Proud of you, Jessamine."

"Haven't even gotten started, Dad."

"Speaking of _started _\- " Cliff peered towards the open study door, "is your mother ever going to call us for dinner?"

"We should get down there and help."

"And interrupt in the middle of her baked salmon and lemon asparagus? You don't mess with a master."

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Her first month at the 14th was the steepest learning curve she could recall. Even her early days at the Academy had been buffered by a lifetime of absorbing cop philosophy and cop lingo from her father and his friends. Seven years in General Investigations had given her a solid survey of the crimes that afflicted New York, but she felt like she'd landed in a Master's program in Murder, after years of undeclared studies.

The first surprise was how young Lieutenant Sythe was. From his voice on the phone, and the résumé she'd pieced together, she had expected one of the tough, divorce-stung military types one often found at the top of the command. When she pulled up his photo on the police database, she blinked. Sythe looked like a middle-aged, mid-level executive public servant from any department in the city. Decent brown suit, decent hair, first few wrinkles, and eyes that still held hope. Not at all like an ex-Private who'd been honorably discharged after being wounded on patrol.

The squad room atmosphere was, interestingly, far less cynical in Homicide than in GIS, and she rarely had to deal with being fresh meat with long legs. It was as though the constant nearness to death and the bereaved made them all more aware of one another, putting a higher value on every day.

Some things never changed for a rookie, though. Certain male cops looked so innocent, when she approached, that she knew weren't talking shop. Her first days consisted of endless phone calls, cross-matching reference lists and old files, doing Internet searches and passing on any useful information she dug up. Which was fine with her. It gave her a better idea of the depth required, and of the forensic tests particular to murder cases. She had a hell of a lot to learn, and needed to catch up in a hurry. She'd never heard of many of these tools in her previous daily round of fraud, petty thefts, and missing-kid calls.

She asked Detective Sergeant Benton, her training mentor, for his advice. He put her in touch with the second-in-command of the Crime Lab, an apparent Greek goddess with the imposing name of Stella Bonasera, for a tour of the lab and a brush-up on current Homicide forensics.

Stella turned out to be a good friend of Flack Junior's, and while stunning, was anything but regal, with a warm laugh and a variety of eloquent snorts. Jess recalled having seen her play for the NYPD baseball team - there was no mistaking that head of hair - and Stella's eyes lit up.

"You play?"

"All through school. Senior Girls' AA, went to State."

"Oh, you gotta start coming! Practices are every Tuesday, seven p.m. till we drop."

"We'll talk," Jess grinned, "Let me get on my feet here, first."

CSU was like a tight, nerdy family, even their taciturn supervisor. Though they all knew she was there because of Flack's accident, they welcomed her with casual warmth, eager to show off their toys. She noticed that, unlike the squad room, most of them used first names, except on business calls, or in the case of Sheldon Hawkes, the ME-turned-CSI, who simply preferred his surname.

Flack, however, was Flack.

"Flack's like an honorary CSI," Stella told her, as they walked through the glass labyrinth of the laboratory, with its enviable thirty-fifth story view of the city. "Definitely more than just one of the Murder Squad. He does a lot of the heavy lifting for us, case-wise, and we feed him the ammo for the prosecution. He and Danny Messer are like brothers."

Which explained the slightly strained greeting from that hyperactive Italian. He was still blaming himself for not being at the bomb site two weeks ago. He was lucky not to have been anywhere nearby - luckier than their boss, Mac, who'd been trapped in the building and had to administer rough field surgery to the downed Flack, or pint-sized Lindsay, who was still sporting a scar at her hairline - but it was clear he felt bad anyway. It was Jess' first indication that this Flack was not only a good cop and a talented detective, but had the ability to make and keep real friends on the job.

Some of these things were confirmed in conversation, the next day.

"You should see Flack and Messer in interrogations," Hanover said. "It's like watching a squash match, and the poor rube's the ball."

"You want some good Flack stories, you go talk to Ruth up in Records," Timothy added. "She's known him since he used to visit here with his old man. He's the only one who doesn't have to wait a couple days for file requests. Somehow, she was always _just_ doing some work on them, and they're right at her fingertips."

"Charms old ladies, does he?" Jess asked, grinning. "Boy Scout type?"

"Boy Scout, my ass," said Timothy. "He starts telling stories, and gets her laughing so hard at some dirty punch line, you'd think she was a silly kid. But it gets the job done."

"Depraved Irish," Hanover shook his head. "It's not the same without him here. No offence."

"None taken." said Jess. "He sounds like a great guy."

"He is, but don't ever tell him. Only time anyone gets this kind of talk is when they're lying in hospital."

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He knew who she was, long before he met her. Not just that she was the daughter of a retired DS who still lectured at the Academy, or that she'd only missed graduating top of her Troop because of demerits from fighting a fellow Cadet.

Hanover reported that she was a real team player, and enjoyed coming out with them to Harper's on Friday nights. Sigurdson's girlfriend, who sometimes came along with Sig, had a hate-on for her, because Sig said once that the new girl Angell was both hot and smart. Angell didn't know this, and kept trying to be nice to her, which only made it worse, but was pretty funny to watch. She was definitely a bit of window-dressing for the bullpen, but she didn't seem to try, or even care. It was a pity she was only there until Flack recovered, because they all sort of liked having her around.

According to Danny, Angell's year had two seasons: hockey and baseball. She'd picked up a lot of murder forensics in a short time, and was always trying to learn more.

_Hockey?_ thought Flack. _Hot and smart?_

"What, nobody's snagged her yet?" he demanded. "C'mon, boys!"

Hanover, sitting in the visitor's chair beside the hospital bed, shook his head. "Aw, she's kinda hands-off, if you know what I mean. Maybe it's because of her old man. Anyway, we've all been too busy while you've been catching up on your beauty sleep."

Hanover was taken aback at Flack's sudden dark expression.

"I know I look like hell. And nobody seems to want to answer any of my questions about getting back to work." Flack said. "I mean, I'm up, I'm walkin', and I'm starting physio in a couple days, but it's gonna be a week before I even go home."

"Flack, man, do you even know how bad you scared us? No, I'm asking you: do you remember what happened, how bad it was?"

"I remember most of it, right up to the blast. Then I woke up in the ICU with a tube down my throat. I'm sort of glad I don't remember the in-between."

"Right. So what I'm sayin' is, we almost lost you. And here you are three weeks later, bitchin' about the food and asking about your cases. That's awesome. Nobody's talkin' about giving your desk away. We got Angell around to help pick up the slack, is all."

"Yeah. Sorry." Flack looked away. "I'm just sick of sittin' here, gettin' stupid on pain meds. I'm sick of gettin' pissed off at nothing. And I hate being fussed over."

"That's good, though, right? Means you're getting better. And I dunno, man...pretty cute nurses around here. I heard you were still out cold when all the students were visiting...pity you slept through the sponge-bath class."

"Bullshit."

"Would this face lie?"

"_Such_ bullshit." Flack grinned. "Didja bring me a sub?"

"Roast beef, everything but hot peppers. They said you're not allowed those yet."

"Good man."

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He was young and strong, and he was healing rapidly. So rapidly, in fact, that his physiotherapist warned him that he'd have to work extremely hard to counteract the tough muscle and skin that was replacing his old flesh.

"Scar tissue is meant to be strong," she told him, "So you gotta be stronger. Don't wait for therapy time. Keep doing your exercises, keep it loose, whenever you remember. You need your full range of motion."

He knew he was truly on the mend when his dreams and wandering thoughts took a turn for the sexy, and he began having a hell of a time keeping his hand off himself. He'd enjoyed a fairly active sex life, either with a girlfriend or an occasional sweet hookup, and this abstinence was not of his choosing. He felt like a teenager, praying like hell he wouldn't come in his sleep or get wood during a bed-bath, but thankfully, he was allowed to get up and shower before that happened. Even if sex was one of the body's normal staples, and wet dreams no great medical mystery to any nurse, it didn't have to be written all over him that he was horny.

Things got weirder still when Danny brought him the printout he'd asked for, of Detective Angell's profile off the NYPD Intranet. He'd expected her to look like one of the tough, tomboyish lady cops, with the cropped hair and tattoos all up the arms, all girl but definitely too much of a handful for the boys in blue. Angell was anything but. Her laughing dark eyes drew him in for long minutes before he even looked elsewhere. And then her generous smiling mouth and glowing fresh skin, and the pride that straightened her back and slim shoulders. Even pinned up as per uniform regs, he could tell she had long, wavy hair, somewhere between brunette and chestnut. And though her collar and tie were precisely folded and set, there was something cheeky going on there...

It would make it hard to look her in the eye when they actually met, but he was bored stiff, literally, and pretty much helpless to do much else than let nature take its course. More than once, as he continued to heal. He rationalized that she was the only non-scrubs-wearing girl he'd seen in a month, besides family.

He did read through her impressive profile, though, inwardly chuckling that he _really was_ reading the articles, and kept it in a folder with other bits and pieces of paperwork that he managed to coerce out of his boys. He was still their supervisor, and even if they weren't taking orders from him at the moment, he could still stay fresh on current cases.

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Two months in, Sythe sent her out on her first murder solo without ceremony, handing her a printed slip. "You know the drill. Holler if you need anything. CSU will meet you there."

"Yes, sir."

She was clicking away, documenting bruises and lividity on a female vic in La Perla, when a familiar Staten Island accent hailed her from the mezzanine walkway.

"Messer," she nodded to him, and then Hawkes, as the two stood side by side like a pair of little kids hanging over the rail of the killer-whale tank at the aquarium. "Doc."

Danny smirked down at her. "What, I don't see Benton breathin' down your neck. He take the training wheels off?"

"You gonna bust my balls or let me work?" she volleyed back.

"Well, well," Hawkes said conversationally. "Looks like Angell got her wings."

"Oh, gimme a break." She rolled her eyes. That old line was worn out before she was even born.

Amazingly, they did. They joined her downstairs, and the three of them fanned out and began working the scene like they'd been doing it for years.

"It's a shame," said Danny.

"What, in particular?" she asked, with some dread.

"That's some real cute underwear she's got on. Thing with this job? You can't look at that stuff again without seein' a dead girl in 'em."

"Now that _is_ a shame," said Hawkes. "You mean the longer you do this..."

"That is exactly what I'm talkin' about," Danny sighed. "Victoria has no secrets left, after a while."

There was, she thought, some sad truth to that. She decided to throw them a bone.

"Oh," she said, "I wouldn't worry. Victoria's always got something up her sleeve. So to speak. She'll always keep you guessin'."

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The whole gang took her out after shift to celebrate her first solo, which was really just a handy excuse to try to get her drunk and off-guard. Really, it was because Flack was back, if only for a half-shift. Friday pints were a staple of the Murder Squad, and Harper's was the usual watering hole. War-stories, family stories, game nights and paint-strippingly personal retorts made up a large part of the bedrock of the team.

Flack was already installed at Harper's by the time she and Danny joined the gang, fresh from putting away their poor little rich girl murderer. Danny cut a path through the crowd, to where Flack was holding court at a corner of a series of tables that had been pushed together.

"Hey, Flack -- Angell," Danny yelled above the noise, waving his hand between them. Flack stood up, all six feet two inches of County Carlow, and smiled politely and a little tiredly, holding out his hand.

"Welcome back," she said, not bothering to holler. Her hand felt very small in his, but she returned his grip.

"Welcome on board," he returned, with the accent of a born New Yorker.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned away.

_So much for all the anticipation,_ she thought. _That's it?_

"Angell - " Hanover said, looming up beside her. "Some rocket fuel to go with those wings."

"Everclear?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the shooter in his hand.

"Nah. Heard your vic'd been giving tequila body shots in fancy underwear. Thought you might wanna give us all a re-enactment"

"In your dreams. Scratch that - I don't wanna be hanging out in your head, it's creepy as hell in there."

"And how would you know? You been visiting?"

"Some busted old hooker I booked last week said so," she shot back loudly, "Something about you making her wear your mother's dress?"

Hanover covered his heart, wincing, as the hooting and jeering rose around him.

"Round one, you. Hey, Angell, good work out there," he raised his beer glass to her. "Call-out to confession in _one day_, people. Keep it up."

It wasn't a long night, as she had to work in the morning, but the last few minutes gave her by far the most material to chew over later. As the early risers switched to coffee instead of ordering another round, she heard her name.

"Two black, for Grierson and me. Cream and sugar for Carmody. And Angell, yours is cream and sugar too, brown if they have it?" Flack called over the dull roar. She looked up, startled, and barely remembered to nod.

"Thanks," she called back. He grinned and looked down, fishing in his wallet for a bill.

Done his research _and_ shown his kung-fu was better than hers.

Sneaky bugger.

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They talked shop casually at scenes where they crossed paths, but there was a shadow between them. He never commented on the fact that she'd been deployed to Homicide while he recovered from his post-bombing repair surgery, or _in case he hadn't_. He never mentioned her father, though he must have remembered his old instructor. To his credit, and hers, he didn't check over her paperwork, after the first couple of weeks, simply scribbling his name at the bottom of anything that needed a senior detective's co-sign, and nodding as he handed it back.

Even so, she learned a lot about him. She knew that while he was laid back in the office, he vented his frustrations in the interrogation room, drawing murder and rape suspects tighter into his web of constant words, winning the legendary information-gains her father told her about. She knew he was meticulous in his records except when he was being ridden by a hard case, when he barely sat down long enough to write up his daily field reports, and that his constables stepped in and cleaned them up without telling him.

She knew he was single at the moment, and a chronic first-date flirt, rarely taking the same girl out more than twice, but that he didn't reveal much about his dating life otherwise. He wasn't as hip as he thought, reacting with dismay when he stumbled upon some new or fringey subculture that sideswiped his vision of the world. (A few years in GIS would have done him good, she thought. Nobody could have seen it all, but she'd bet good money that there wasn't much she'd missed.) His suits were sharper and kept in better repair than most of the other detectives', though she couldn't believe he was so oblivious in his choice of ties. It had to be deliberate dry humor, a small harmless rebellion.

And damn, he was arrogant as hell. He knew he'd been blessed with a lot, and he took pleasure in using it. Mostly this was mitigated by the self-flagellation he doled out when he missed something, and his single-minded pursuit of cases that others would have put on the back burner, as a sort of redemption.

Still, he was her ticket into Ruth's good books.

"Of course, dear," Ruth said, peering at the check-out card Jess handed her. "Is this urgent? Only, I have all these boxes to get ready to send down to Archives, and..."

"Nothing urgent," Jess said patiently, leaning on the counter of the Records Room service window. "Detective Flack's been pulling a lot of overtime on a case is all, so I said I'd help with some of the research. This one popped out of the database on a case-to-case query. Flack's vic can't get any deader, but it might help turn a manslaughter conviction into murder."

"I see." Ruth pursed her lips. "I tell you what, dear - oh, _wait_ just a moment." She took the card and wandered out of sight. A minute later, she reappeared, beaming, file in hand. "Isn't that something! I _knew_ I'd seen that name just recently! It was right next to a file I'd just pulled for purging."

_He's not a Boy Scout,_ Jess realized. _He's Cary fucking Grant. And he's got more than one of us running around like His Girl Friday._

_Screw that_

A few weeks later, he bought her lunch, as a sort of not-quite-apology for forgetting her birthday. He looked so damn earnest that she had to stop herself from laughing at him. The guys never did much for birthdays. Why would she have expected anything? But there was a look in his eye, something that he wanted to say.

It was funny, she thought, that she worked so hard to _be_ one of the guys, with no special treatment or attention, but his gesture made her glow. Just a little.

She could admit that maybe she'd need to re-think her opinion.

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There was a shadow between them, but it took Flack a while to notice. He'd made a point of treating her with professional courtesy, and had made it clear he thought highly of her work, without invoking her father's name. He'd tried not to hover and go into big brother mode, giving her space to find her feet. It was hard not to hover, when she was conducting phone interviews in her rich alto, or when she made the small investigational slip-ups that everyone did, from time to time. She'd made rapid progress with Benton's coaching, and she needed experience, not help. She wouldn't want anyone to make her way easier.

Which was why he'd never tell her, but he'd shut down more than one locker-room conversation about her, and threatened to assign a few constables to Gender Sensitivity class if they made one more comment about her ass. Or her legs. Or her hair, or her smiling, snappy retorts.

"She's here to work, she outranks you, and you're talking about her just like the ignorant assholes we haul in here every day," he growled. "You think she'd find you amusing?"

"Aw, relax, Flack. We're just bullshitting. Jess can hold her own."

"Drinks night is one thing, but _Detective_ Angell shouldn't have to _hold her own_, in her own office. And I shouldn't have to say so. You guys got nothing better to do than hang out here holding _your_ own, or do I gotta find you some work?"

_Hypocrite_, he thought privately, though he hadn't invoked Fantasy Jess since they'd met in person.

Well, only once.

So he treated her like any of his boys, and left her alone otherwise.

He noticed, though, when the smudges under her eyes turned from soft lilac to dark grey, and he wondered what sort of things kept her awake at night. He noticed - how could he not? - when she dressed up for court days, in a nice tailored pantsuit, her hair up in a knot and the roses and thorns tattooed around her wrist covered up by the neat cuff of a blouse. He noticed how she and Stella had connected instantly, two tough-minded women in a tough profession, and that Danny considered himself on a short leash around her. He noticed when she was having an off-day, even if there wasn't much he could say or do about it. He just tried to stay out of her hair.

He didn't realize her birthday had come and gone until a week after it passed, and he was surprised how badly he felt about it. He hadn't planned to leave flowers on her desk or anything, but he had a nagging feeling he'd missed an opportunity to do something. Make some sort of contact, and let her know, if he could, that he didn't think of her like any of his other colleagues, and not just because she happened to be gorgeous and a real talent and yelled in French at the big-screen TV at Harper's during the Stanley Cup lead-up. She was a splash of beauty in the sordid world they inhabited in their work.

Though he sort of wanted her to know all that, too.

He managed to waylay her from paying for her lunch at the deli, a couple of days later, saying, "I forgot to bring a birthday candle, but..."

She blinked, and then that grin spread across her face, and her eyes lit up. He sucked in a breath, and realized just how badly he'd been lying to himself this whole time.

_This girl's the real deal. But Hanover was right - there's something hands-off about her. Not someone to mess around with, in any sense of the word, unless a guy was absolutely serious._

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Six months after she first arrived, Sythe finally got Dawkins to give her up, and signed her onto the Murder Squad. They all hit Harper's that night, even Sythe, and Stella, Danny and Lindsay from the Crime Lab. It was nothing new; she'd been joining them since the first week, but she'd always paid when it was her round. Tonight she found herself with a line of shooters in front of her, and a gently steaming Spanish Coffee in a sugar-rimmed glass mug for afters.

"Who's drivin' tonight?" she demanded, after the first three shots. "'Cause I sure as hell am not!" There was a chorus of various forms of "Not me!", and then Flack spoke up, saying that he'd drawn a graveyard shift, and would make sure she got home. So she raised her fourth shooter to him in a toast, and grinned into his rather lovely blue eyes. She wondered if she'd get drunk enough to ask him why they were always a little sad.

For once, there was a parking space right in front of her apartment. They occupied it for a good hour.

She never did ask about his eyes, but she got him singing along with her to Springsteen on the radio, which was almost as good. She stated that '80's power tunes were still the best hockey anthems in existence. Any shadows in his eyes vanished in a blink, and they began talking. She told him about playing on an outdoor rink near her childhood house. She knew he played on the NYPD hockey team in the winter months, but learned that he also coached YMCA hockey and basketball programs for nine to twelve year olds, who he called "his little guys". She told him about her knee surgery in fifth grade, after sliding so hard into home base that she'd dislocated her knee and torn a ligament, but had made the home run.

"Jeez. Did you win, at least?"

"We did, actually..."

They sat outside her apartment until it was time for him to sign on, and while she had no gut feeling that he was hoping for an invite upstairs, it was clear that he was enjoying the company just as much as she was. Maybe he just wasn't into the small-talk routine. Or maybe he was just paranoid about seeming to be too friendly with a female colleague.

Either way, she thought, after she'd showered and brushed and crawled, wet-haired and still tipsy, into bed, tonight was like a whole new introduction for them.

And a whole new era stretched in front of her, as a permanent member of the Murder Squad.

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_To be continued..._


	2. Covalance and Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rollercoasters start so slowly...

RATING: English-style "tea" - strong but sweet. (And always warm the teapot first.)  
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.

\---------------------------------  
Chapter Two  
Surveillance and Covalence  
\---------------------------------

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_...and just between you and me,  
I think she'll soon have you temptation bound.  
Now here she comes, here she comes..._

\- Bonnie Tyler, "Here She Comes"

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Surveillance could be a mindless slog, but the day was slipping by faster than she wanted.

It was serendipity and a quirk of scheduling that found them together on a bright, brisk afternoon, sharing eyes duty in a patrol car. With not much else to do but wait for their mark, a socialite promotions magnate, conversation once again came easily and quickly. She found herself intrigued. Maybe it was the private, enclosed space he liked? He did come to life in the interrogation room...

"Soon as I turned nineteen," he said in answer to her query. "Never planned on doin' anything else." He took the upgrading courses and seminars offered by the Academy at regular intervals, and didn't see the point in investing in college until, and unless, there was a specific need for it.

"Nineteen, too, after freshman year." she told him. She'd gone to college for a year, to appease her mother, before entering the Academy. Then, as soon as she'd made Detective and had a little more control over her work hours, she'd begun taking one or two night classes at a time at CUNY, taking advantage of the tuition incentive program offered by NYPD. She was working towards a Crim degree, minoring in Sociology. Eventually, she planned to move into Criminal Intelligence Analysis, working with the reams of information that the NYPD and other law enforcement agencies gathered, and making predictions and resource allocation recommendations.

As much as she loved the puzzle-solving and physical demands of being a Detective, there came a time when the body and soul began to wear down.

"I don't want to be forty-five years old and chasing after some dealer in a dark alley. Or get pushed up the ladder by default. And if - someday - I ever have a family to come home to, I'm not gonna want to be pursuing high crimes on the streets of New York. So I'm planning ahead. At the very least, I come out of it with a degree."

"Impressive," he nodded. "From what I hear, you'd be great at that kind of thing."

"Why? What do you hear?"

"That you're good at seeing patterns, and that your case reports show great perspicacity."

" 'Great perspicacity'? Who talks like that?"

"Taylor. The one from CSU, not Victim's Assistance."

"Oh, that makes sense. I thought you meant Sythe."

"No, he just thinks you're a good return on investment. His words."

She cracked up at that, and he grinned back, watching her with open enjoyment. "Well, it's good to know where I stand." she said at last.

"So where is this broad?" he muttered, still smiling, checking his wing mirror for any sign of Amber Stanton.

Unlike Timothy, he didn't pester her for advice about his girlfriends, and unlike Sig, he didn't act as though every moment was a potential international event. And unlike many, many cops with whom she'd shared a car on a New York afternoon, with the late summer heat rippling off the teeming pavements and glass-sided buildings, Flack seemed to smell better as the day wore on. But she wouldn't tell him that.

He still didn't have a lot to say about himself, though. "So I know you're a second-gen Blue, too." she asked eventually, trying put him at his ease. "Does it go any farther back? Any more Flacks in the department?"

"Not really," he said. " 'Course you know about my dad. He came straight from Ireland. _Garda Síochána na h-Éireann_ to NYPD, back in 72. My mom's dad owned a transport security company here in Manhattan, though, so he did his bit for the law. My older brother does something at the Stock Exchange, and nobody really knows what my little sister wants, so I'm it for the family...not that some basic training wouldn't do Sammy some good. I think she's an actress this year. Between waitressing gigs."

Jess made an understanding _moue_.

"What about you?" he asked. "Besides your old man, any other Angells in blue?"

"No, I'm it for the family, too. None of my brothers ever wanted it, and Dad never pushed. Rick's an EMT, here in New York. _Jean-Richard_, but don't call him that. He says I have a cushy job next to his, and I actually have to agree. He moved down from Montréal a few years after Mom and Dad and I did. Dominic and Jerome stayed up in Canada and moved to the National Capitol Region. They're public servants, like every second person you meet in Ottawa."

"Okay, Montreal explains the French." he nodded. "And the hockey. How'd you end up here?"

"The usual way. Dad was a Staff Sergeant with the RCMP in Québec, and the NYPD offered him a step up, with the works. By then, the boys were either safely in university or already out, and I was only ten, so Dad and _Maman_ figured what the hell, they'll pretend they're a young family again. Next thing you know, it's _au revoir, tu me manqueras_, and I'm leaving one set of nuns for another - same order, same habits, different faces."

"No way. A convent girl? I would not have...really? With the sports and the...?"

His reserve dropped, he sounded so thoroughly taken aback that she sent him a slightly dangerous eyebrow. "Bless this, Detective."

"Hey, I'm not being a jerk, I'm just sayin' - I got the nuns, too."

"Ah. My bad. Irish Catholic?"

"I was. Now, not so much."

"Same. Well, French Catholic on mom's side. Dad's English Protestant. Me, I'm, I don't know. I sort of miss some parts of it all, but it stopped working for me a long time ago."

He nodded in understanding. Jess thought privately that the whole conversation - the whole afternoon - had taken a turn for the surreal. She'd been curious to learn something more about him. Discussing their early religious upbringings, however, hadn't been on the agenda.

A line from an old favourite poem sprang into to her mind: _"I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints..."_ and she shivered, quite as if, she thought, a ghost had indeed walked over her grave.

She blinked and focused on Flack once more.

"Oh, I get your brothers' names now." he was saying. "Saints' names, all three. And yours."

"And Martin, too. He's in Jersey now, with his family. He's the oldest."

"_Four_ older brothers...and a Detective Sergeant for a father?" He looked at her. "Your old man dust you for prints when you came home from a date?"

_He would if he could have_, Jess thought, and _I can hardly blame him._ She gazed into the rear-view mirror.

With an eight-year gap between Jess and her nearest brother, she was often referred to as the late-entry, or, when her brothers were being cruel, "The Accident". Their mother, Chérie, insisted they were just a good Catholic family who left it up to God. Jess took it all with mostly good humour. Her brothers treated her like a life-size action figure and her father called her "Sarge". She put up with wearing her St. Ignatius' gym slip because it was uniform, but the moment she was home, she was into her brothers' well-worn hand-me downs and out into the backyard for some catch practice before dinner. Life was a romp, and she grew up sturdy and dimpled, more boy than girl, to the quizzical relief of her parents, who knew boys best.

Then, as puberty hit a year after their move to the States, her parents were broadsided by a tall, willowy girl who wailed about everything. Suddenly, the girls at school were horrible, she hated New York, her kilts were too short, and her parents were hopelessly clueless. Being hauled out to buy her first brassiere was nothing short of traumatic. By her fourteenth year, though, she'd developed a taste for the attention she was getting, and Chérie found herself having to put the brakes on her tomboy daughter's sudden transformation into a young Claudette Colbert.

Girls with whom she had nothing in common before were now the keepers of her secrets. The local boys were stunned into silence at the reality of their old playmate's encounter with full-on early sex appeal. She was gentle with them; she let them take her to the movies or for burgers and fries on the weekend, and she was patient as they figured out how, and when, to kiss her goodnight. Growing up surrounded by protective males and eavesdropping on her father's police shop talk had served her well. She maintained a sort of buffer around herself, never committing, always slightly remote, and wary of anyone who might be trying to catch her with her guard down.

That didn't stop her from sneaking out the basement door to meet boyfriends for breathtaking midnight trysts, though, or later, from being smuggled into her first lover's college dorm room at not-quite seventeen. And it didn't stop her from coolly defending herself to an outraged, horrified Cliff, when he caught her returning home one night, reminding him that he'd raised her to always take care of herself, and to set her own terms.

And she had. A year in college, still living at home, had only sharpened her original desire to follow her father and become a cop. Overtaken by a bone-deep sense of purpose and of returning to her original self, she'd been grateful to have gotten her kicks out early. Except for a couple of low-key romances after she'd graduated from the Academy, she'd only dated casually.

The tattoos around her wrist and down her spine, and the scars all over her body from a competitive athletic childhood and a hold-nothing-back police career, told the continuing story of her life, but it wasn't one that many men cared to hear in full. She'd played so hard to be one of the boys that she'd beaten them at their own game, at every level. They seemed to regard her either as a sister or an unapproachable lust-object, with little in between. It was ironic, she thought, that she'd never allowed herself to date a fellow cop, who might appreciate her fully, knowing all too well the blue line gossip that would hound her entire working life.

"If it was up to them, I wouldn't have known boys existed until I was twenty-one," she replied wryly to Flack, still watching the mirror for Stanton. _And they'd certainly have preferred that I not get behind a badge._

"I'm sure the boys knew you existed."

There was a wistfulness in his voice that made her pause in her memories and look up. She heard a shadow of some long-ago teenager who believed himself to be undistinguished, without much hope of having his affections returned. She wondered if he'd heard his own words, the way they slipped out.

"Was that a line, Flack?" she shot back, aiming for levity. Flack-the-adult had his own groupie issues, and was never short of female attention, but if rumor was correct, some rich strawberry-blonde had been recently parading him on her arm all around the philanthropy-as-foreplay scene. Had that come to its inevitable end already? "Did you just bust out your game on me?"

Flack avoided her gaze, grinned sheepishly and seemed to be casting around for a reply, though his ears and then his throat flushed an interesting shade. _Oh, good grief_, she thought, taking a closer look. _I was joking. I think. This just got interesting._

"It was, wasn't it? Look at you, you're blushing."

"C'mon, game? Game? I have no game. If I did, that's probably as good as it gets."

He was entirely in earnest. In some respects, at least, Detective Flack Jr. regarded himself as a bit of a dork. She felt a warmth welter up inside. "I thought it was pretty good."

She was just deciding whether to say anything further, or see where he jumped next, when there was a tap on the window.

_Oh, shit_. Her stomach shriveled.

If there was anything worse than being made by a mark, it was being made by an unpleasant, power-mongering, saccharine-tongued mark.

"Detectives," Amber said brightly. "Oh, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

_My own stupid fault for not watching_, thought Jess, knowing Flack was thinking the same. They sat and let Amber breeze her charming way through her hissy fit, and by silent accord, snapped back into work-mode as soon as she exited the car.

"That woman pisses me off," Flack growled. Jess nodded mentally, and watched as Flack got out and began looking over the back seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for anything that'll help me put her in handcuffs next time I see her."

_And not the fun ones,_ her brain added helpfully.

He triumphantly held up a single hair, and she passed him a paper bindle from the glove box.

"Not bad for a guy on a city salary," she ventured, slyly.

"Thank you," was his demure response, and he blushed again. So Don Juan de Flack could dish it out, but didn't know how to take it?

_Interesting._

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The thing with Devon lasted a month longer than he'd thought it would. The truth was, they liked each other. They made each other laugh, and they were from such different worlds that there was a mutual fascination.

She'd placed herself in front of him, sweaty and dishevelled as he was, after an NYPD / NYFD hockey game fundraiser for the New York Veterans and Families Association, and introduced herself. She liked what she saw, and it didn't occur to her that she wouldn't get it. That was all right. He liked what he saw as well. Devon might have been a trust-fund kid, but her head and her heart were in the right place, as incidentally was every curve on her well-tended body.

She liked hearing about the gritty underbelly of New York. He enjoyed her stories from her Swiss boarding school childhood, and meeting the glittering citizens she now called her New York circle. She introduced him as "my Detective", and had him painted as a sort of knight-champion in her mind. He saw an opportunity to open her mind to the more basic reality of the city and its people, not served by any charity society. And sex with Devon rocked his world. He had no illusions that they were remotely well-matched for the long term.

She let him off gently one evening in early December, as the inevitable discussion of Christmas plans drew near. Her apartment had a fireplace, and she'd built a small fire, which went perfectly with rum and eggnog at the end of a snappingly cold day

"Donnie," she said, leaning back against his knees, "My parents want me to go skiing with them over the holidays. In Switzerland."

_Must be swell_, he thought. "Sounds nice. You gonna go?"

"Yeah," she said, hesitantly. She looked into the flames. She didn't ask him if he could go, or if he wanted to. She knew his job. He'd never get the time off in the holidays, and even if he did, she'd have to pay for him. _And I don't belong in that world._

"You planning on coming back?" he asked. He knew where she was going with this. He played with a strand of her hair. He'd assumed she'd chosen the colour herself, but he'd been wrong. She was a ginger girl, all right, and born in tempestuous April at that.

After a moment, she set her mug down on the glass coffee table, and turned to look at him, her blue-gray eyes serious. "We've had fun, haven't we?"

"We have," he said. He felt sense of lightening relief. "And hey, didn't I save you from being robbed? That was pretty cool, no?"

She smiled. "Very cool." Her smile wavered, and fell. She was finding this genuinely hard.

"Dev, it's okay. Go have fun with your people. You're right. We've had fun."

He kept stroking her ringlets, thinking he'd miss the feel of them under his hand, and she leaned back again. "Will you still let me know when your games come up? I'd like to come watch. You're pretty good out there."

"I will." he said, and leaned forward to kiss her bright crown. She turned her face to his. He kissed her mouth, softly, and then with deepening hunger. Her hands tugged at his shirt until they slipped underneath, and she raked her nails lightly over his skin to make him hiss in pleasure. They were so damn good at this together.

"One for my baby?" he asked against her lips, with a smile in his voice.

"And one more for the road," she agreed. She stood, and taking his hand, led him for the last time to her bedroom.

He rode the subway home that night with the unsettling sense of things falling into place, rather than apart, but he wasn't going to think too much on that just yet.

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_Send a uni for Rikki Sandoval, or give them more time? Tell Mac I'm worried for Danny's stability out there, or try to talk some sense into him myself?_

He nearly jumped when he heard her voice.

"Hey. Thought you were off today," she said.

"Yeah, I was. Something came up with Danny. It's...a long story."

Jess took that as a signal to cross her arms and settle in.

"How about I tell it to you over an Irish coffee?" he temporized.

The unsmiling lady detective vanished, and there was just Jess, taking in his tight shoulders and worried frown. It was obvious that she realized he was at some remove from okay, but wasn't going to ride his ass about it. He liked that Jess didn't mind leaving him alone with his thoughts. She knew how guys processed things. It made it much easier to talk to her later on. And once they'd finally gotten around to talking, they'd been doing a lot of catching up.

"Think I know just the place," she said in an undertone, the seriousness of his voice registering. She was about to say something more when his Messer-sense triggered, and he looked up to see Danny escorting Rikki, uncuffed, through the front doors.

So Jess would get to see the third act for herself. He wasn't sure if it would make it any easier to explain to her why he'd given Danny so much rope. Enough rope, in fact, to hang them both. Danny hadn't reported his gun was in the hands of an EDP, who was his neighbor and God only knew what else. And he'd taken a couple of solid swings at a smarmy-mouthed petty thief. And he, Donald Jr., had assisted Danny in his insane pursuit, and then _let them all go_. It was blind luck that there hadn't been any cellphone-toting civilians nearby, grabbing each precious second and uploading it to the Twitterverse on the way home.

Rikki looked as though she was about to vomit from nerves, however, and Danny was near catatonic with fatigue and grief. As involved persons, neither he nor Danny could place Rikki under arrest. _At least Messer kept a couple of wits to rub together_, he realized. _Of course Rikki had to come in on her own two feet. Once I started being his friend and not a cop, he had to either call someone else to arrest her, or talk her into turning herself in._

Which left Jess, blissfully unaware of the great favour she was about to do them. Rikki was ready to talk, and Jess was a good listener. Danny would only be listed in the case file as a friend who convinced her to return his service weapon and turn herself in, though technically, he could have his wrist smacked for leaving his gun unsecured in his residence with a civilian present. Flack had set out all the legal processes, and pulled a couple of strings with the arraignment judge and bailiff. Rikki would come through all right. All Jess had to do was book her and start the ball rolling.

"Jess, would you take her inside?"

Jess nodded, and her glance said clearly: _You so owe me._ He sighed, and hurried to catch up with Danny.

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"...and you know the rest. That's when they turned up at the precinct."

She hadn't said a word since he began the tale, and she'd kept her expression carefully schooled throughout. Lessons learned at her father's knee, probably watching her brothers being grilled.

"Another round?" she asked, her inflection neutral. He nodded and got up. They'd ditched the coffee in favour of plain Irish after the first round, when it became clear that stronger medicine was needed.

"Same?"

"Yeah. Single, rocks. Please and thank you."

He wasn't sure if she wanted a moment to clear her head, or to get him good and loaded for medicinal purposes, or just wanted him to turn his back so she could bolt. But when he came back with the drinks, upgraded from Jameson to twelve-year-old Dunville's, she was smiling at him, and had obviously been smiling at him for a while.

"What?"

"You're a good friend. Danny's lucky to have you around."

He sat down and slid her glass across the table. "But I forgot which badge I was supposed to be wearing, huh?"

Her long fingers slipped momentarily against his as she took it, and he thought he saw the smallest flicker of the dimple in her cheek.

"Well, I mean, of course you should've put out an APB as soon as you knew she had it. We don't exactly need more guns in the hands of emotionally disturbed people. And it should have been a file assigned to someone else, not some Don-and-Danny cowboy show. But I gotta say, if it had been me and my old partner, and some friend of his was in trouble, I might have done the same. And I do see that you didn't have time to spare."

She trailed her finger in a patch of condensation on her glass, and lifted it for a sip. He watched, impressed, as she exhaled slowly and acknowledged what he'd brought her, savoring the burn and the flavor.

She went on, regardless: "So now you two have dragged me into your sordid exploits, I'm supposed to sit on the fact that he, and you, never reported his gun being stolen?"

Flack accepted the truth of her words with a grimace and a sigh, and knew he was lucky to get off so easily. Being a Flack, he'd had a certain insulation from criticism, except from his superiors and senior colleagues, but Jess felt no such hesitation. He found he actually relished the sensation of being called to the mat by a peer. It spoke of a deep respect between them, and a promise to keep raising the bar.

"...which means you can't have given your 20 to Dispatch. You weren't even on the board! You were supposed to be off-duty. What if you'd needed help?"

"Jess, I know. This is why I wanted to tell you in person."

He watched Jess' face for her reaction, but she just took another sip of her whiskey and shook her hair back off her face. He definitely didn't notice how her soft loose curls bounced on her collarbones, peeking out from the drapy neck of the dark red top she wore, and he absolutely definitely didn't wonder how they would feel against his skin.

"Relax," she said, "The situation was lousy, but it turned out okay. Mrs. Sandoval's back home, she's got court-ordered therapy and a very reasonable suspended sentence, considering the circumstances. Honestly, it's Messer I'm worried about. He could use some court-ordered therapy himself."

"Monroe's getting as bad. She's a mess. And I'm pretty sure Danny's...I'm keepin' my eye on both of them."

"Don't overload the lifeboat, Don. Or everybody drowns."

Her eyes were fixed on his, liquid-dark and kind, as she leaned forward slightly on the table. The world contracted to contain the two of them alone. This had been happening more often lately, he thought muzzily. It was just the devil himself in the works, because after three and a half drinks, Flack thought that if he opened his mouth, something meaningful might emerge, but because of those drinks, he knew better than to try. He had no idea of what he wanted to say to her, anyway.

He blinked, she looked down into her glass, and the moment slipped by. He glanced at the clock on the bar and noted it was nearing midnight.

"Think this'll be the last," he said, with real regret.

"Make it count, then," she said, which might have meant something, or nothing at all. He reached out his glass and gently clinked the edge of hers, and they finished their whiskey in agreeable silence.

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He gave her roses on Valentine's Day, mostly by accident.

An investigation had gone into overtime, as they sought to unravel a love triangle that ended in one murder by stabbing and one assault. Jess wasn't surprised at the long day, given the severity of the crime and the three complicated histories.

"Valentine's Day is to lover's quarrels what Christmas Day is to suicides," she observed, walking shoulder to shoulder with Flack down the antiseptic-smelling corridor of Beth Israel Hospital. The girl who had escaped with only a black eye and badly slashed arms had asked to talk with them again, in person. "All these raised expectations, all the hype - someone's bound to have an old grudge set off."

Flack agreed. "At least it isn't a full moon for another week, or we'd really be in it."

"Funny how so many people insist that's just apocryphal, until they ask a cop. Or a paramedic."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy, maybe? Who knows. You have plans for tonight?"

She gave a quick snort. "Not likely."

He glanced at her in some confusion. "I just meant, you know, I can probably handle one sedated girl on my own, if you wanted..."

"What? Oh - sorry. No, I...let's see what she has to say."

It took a good hour, and was obviously deeply painful for the girl, but by the end of it, a clearer picture had emerged. She was the innocent in the mix, unaware that her loving boyfriend really was too good to be true. At first she thought she was somehow to blame, for not being all he needed her to be, or for not being able to haul a much stronger woman with a carving knife away from him. But now that she'd had time to think, she'd realized there might have been more women, and she wanted to make sure they were okay. She didn't have much to identify them, but she gave them the few thin details she recalled.

Jess handed the girl a card as they prepared to leave. The hospital would keep her overnight, and she'd be able to talk to someone in the morning about what would happen next.

"So what happens next for us?" she asked, back in the corridor, shrugging on her jacket and flicking her hair out from under the collar with a brisk impatience. "We're into hour twelve here. Do we follow up on these leads, or send out the unis?"

"Let's get the boys on it," he said. "Doubtful anything comes up, but if it does, they'll call."

"I can just e-mail all this to the Watch Clerk. Carmody and Timothy drew the grave tonight." she said. She shook her head and went on: "I'd say let's just call it a night, but - "

"Pizza, is what I'm thinking," Flack stepped in. She perked up at that. They dealt with this sort of case not infrequently, but they didn't have to go home hungry and fed up with people.

So they ended up at a pizzeria near the hospital. She paused as they entered. She should have realized that an Italian-run joint would dress up for the holiday of romance. There were tall glass sacred-heart candles and single red roses at every formica booth, and schmoozy light opera playing softly. Around the door, tiny red and white Christmas lights had been pressed into Valentine's duty.

_Oh, well,_ she thought. _Embrace the irony._

"_Benvenute, benvenute_," called the resident nonni behind the counter, waving them inside. "Sit, sit, sit."

They did. Nonni yelled something behind a curtain, and a younger girl came out from the back room to take their order. Out of the corner of her eye, Jess saw Nonni reach under her counter and bring up a bottle of wine. The girl murmured "_Polizia,_" as she went back to the kitchen, and the bottle disappeared. Jess smiled despite herself, and for a moment, considered giving her a free pass. She and Flack could probably both do with some vino.

"So." Flack said, over his iced tea. "You wanna tell me what's up, or should I not ask?"

She sighed. All right. If he wanted to know, she'd tell him. "There's a lot that comes with this job that's not exactly easy for anyone else to take on board. And I'm okay with that. Mostly."

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

"And sometimes I wonder if I've just got myself on this freaking pedestal, like I'm trying to hold up the banner for detectives everywhere - "

"And your father." Flack slipped in, so smoothly she barely noticed.

"And my father, and it's no wonder everyone feels like I keep them at arms' length, and then a case like today's comes up, and there's no winners, just one girl going to jail for murder, and another one who's going to have to explain the scars to anyone...if she even lets herself be with anyone again."

"And most of the time, it seems better to be alone, except for some days, it's just..."

"Yeah. And this is one of them. Go figure. I like to think I'm immune from all the Hallmark holiday BS, and then this happens. And you know what? This side of me annoys the piss out of me. I'm sorry."

"Hey, whoa - " he said. "What's that about? You were on a roll. I get it. You could've been talking about me."

"What, you have days like this?"

"Sure I do. What'd you think?"

She stared for a moment. "What about you?" she asked. "You didn't have plans?" Flack never seemed to have difficulty finding a date if he wanted one, and surely not for Valentine's Day. He surprised her by shaking his head.

"Too many expectations," he said. "I don't want to hurt anyone. And I don't..." he looked into his drink and fumbled for a polite phrase, "I mean, there was a time, yeah, but...I don't just wanna fill in the gaps, you know?"

She grinned. _Interesting,_ she thought, hardly for the first time.

"Sure you do," she returned. "You're just not going to, is all. Commendable, really."

She got a half-blush out of him at that.

"God knows my dad and I don't see eye-to-eye on a lot," he went on, "but we do on this: at the end of the day, it's either worth it, being a cop, or it isn't. All the personal stuff, I mean. If it's worth it, we get up and do it all over again. If it isn't, we re-think."

"And we're all closet masochists meanwhile."

"You got a hobby I don't know about, Detective?"

"Idiot," she grinned fondly. "You're right, though. And it's not like I don't know all that. Some days just get to you."

"Yeah, they do. But you don't have to hide them. Not from me."

"Or me." she reminded him. He nodded thoughtfully.

A small silence settled. She looked at him with a renewed glint in her eye. "_Fill in the gaps,_ Flack?" she taunted him, "What the fuck is that?"

"What d'you want me to say, 'get laid, say goodnight and take a cab home' ?"

"Hey, isn't accuracy in reporting the first thing they taught us?"

After a half hour of their usual bracing cop humour and a particularly tasty thin-crust Genovese Salami with mushrooms, she felt like her old self again.

"Don, thanks," she said, licking crumbs daintily off her finger. "This was exactly what I needed."

"Same goes. And Jesus, will you stop doing that?" he batted her hand away before she started in on her fingertips. She giggled and sucked them clean anyway, putting on a little show, laughing outright as he mock-glowered at her.

They were the last two customers in the place, and as they were finishing up, Nonni went around the tables collecting the roses. She wrapped the stems in a clean tea-towel with a map of Lucca on it, and thrust them at Flack, beaming, and pointing to Jess.

"_Prendere queste e dare loro da vostra ragazza_," she said, gesturing vividly.

The grand-daughter poked her head out from behind the curtain. "She says, you should give them - "

"Yeah, I got it," Flack said, blushing furiously now. "Thanks. _Grazie._" He took the bundle of roses awkwardly in his hands.

"Well, uh," he said holding them towards her, "Happy Valentine's."

Funny, she thought, how they could go from crass teasing to shy in the space of an instant. She had a disconcerting sense of tears prickling behind her eyes.

"Thanks," she said softly.

She wasn't the sentimental type that hung her flowers up to dry, but when they finally withered on her hall table, she felt a pang.

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Jess drove, which was fine with him. He enjoyed listening to her occasional "_Tabarnak'! Sacr'ment!_" as couriers and cabs wove too close. Not many cabs out tonight, but then, nobody was taking cabs anymore. There hadn't been any new leads in a week, and frayed squad room tempers were the least of their problems. It was a relief to get some air and follow up on a sighting of a wanted wannabe druglord who had, according to cellblock gossip, gunned down a rival.

He'd have enjoyed the drive more if it weren't for the wannabe who now sat in shackles beside him. It was bad luck that Jess had spotted him before one of the circulating paddy wagons had. The back of a wagon would have been a better place for him, but once they had him cuffed, they couldn't wait around. He had to come back with them. Flack actually wished they'd picked up one of the flashy pimped-out dealers that at least had some self-respect. Roland hadn't bathed in what smelled like a month.

"All right!" Jess pulled up in front of the precinct. "One down. Not a bad way to start a shift, eh, Roland?"

"Speak for yourself," Flack muttered, as she hopped out. He was going to need to change his suit. Jess opened his door, since the rear locks were disengaged from the inside, and he gasped for air, shaking himself. "Augh! He's nasty. His breath smells. Makes Prom night in the back of my father's Caddy with Bianca DiFaizio seem like it never happened."

It was payback for the story she'd told him a few days earlier, about losing her dress on a beach in the south of France, the summer she'd graduated high school. At his dazed silence, she'd snickered and taken pity on him, explaining: "Someone swiped it while we were swimming. So my friend and I just wandered around the market stalls till I found something to wear back to the hotel. We were in one-pieces, for God's sake, in _France_. Might as well have been wearing old-fashioned bathing dresses. I doubt anyone even noticed us."

He'd doubted that most sincerely.

"The back of your father's Caddy?" she grinned at him, catching on.

He shrugged nonchalantly, hoping she'd find some way to grill him about old Bianca before the shift was over. Which, of course, was the whole point. And he'd never tell her exactly what happened, no matter how much she pestered, because after all, he was a gentleman. "C'mon Roland. Time to make the donuts. Yeah, it was either that or my Pontiac Sunbird."

She smiled and shook her head, and he realized she was way too cool to take the bait. So much for driving her nuts -

Roland shoved him in the midsection, hard, and Flack winced and stumbled, taking the hit right on the mass of scar tissue under his ribs. He staggered for a moment, and saw Jess' flying form kick Roland back against the car. Flack leaped and grappled with him, unable to twist his arm back because of the cuffs. What was the cracked-out headcase even thinking, this close to the stationhouse door?

"_Flack!_"

He felt her almost before he registered his name. Her shoulder caught him under the armpit, knocking him off-balance, and in the next instant she'd grabbed him around the waist and spun with him down to the ground. He landed in an ungainly heap on his back, somehow avoiding landing on her with his full weight, and tried to breathe as a yellow cab skidded into the precise spot he'd been standing in.

The back door of the cab was opened, and a body was dumped in front of him before the cab shot away.

As the body rolled once and lay still, Flack scrambled to his feet. He was tearing down the busy street after the cab before he could think, barely aware of his feet hitting the ground. There was no way he could close in on a moving cab on a straightaway, but maybe there'd be some obstacle ahead. He prayed for one, because his lungs were bursting. The cab veered left into a pedestrian walkway, sending up a shower of sparks as it scraped along the curb. A late-night walker swore and dove out the way. There was no license plate, and two layers of tinted glass between him and the driver. The numbered visor light was darkened and illegible. Flack lost the few feet he'd gained and dropped back, cursing a mantra of invectives in his head.

He bent over and sucked in a breath, and then jogged back to where Jess was standing over the body. At least half a dozen unis had materialized, and radios were crackling all over.

He covered the last ten feet cursing himself some more, because Jess had just saved his ass twice in the space of thirty seconds while he'd been distracted by thinking about hers.

"I lost him," he said trenchantly.

"Don - " she held out a police wallet, with a look of regret. "Jersey City PD. Think it was him? The Cabbie Killer?"

_Jesus Christ_. "Well, if it was, he just upped his game. Son of a bitch killed a cop."

He didn't see Jess until dawn, after that, not until he'd spent the rest of the night excoriating himself for not getting a single shred of useful detail that might identify the cab or its driver. Mac and Stella were professional but grim-faced, and he'd walked away from them rather than blow up in public. Danny was sympathetic, which was just as bad. A healthy dose of ripe Italian sarcasm, or even a show of anger would have made Flack feel as if he'd made a forgivable fuckup. Supportive politeness over something as serious as missing the Cabbie Killer by a few inches probably meant that Danny was either deeply disappointed in him, or wanted to take him out back and swing at him.

It was a few hours before he calmed down enough to realize that not only had Jess, a good eighty pounds lighter than he, body-checked him out of the path of the cab, but had had the presence of mind to roll out of his way, _and_ stick her arm out to cushion his head as he crashed onto the pavement with her. He hadn't even needed to wonder if she'd finished getting Roland inside and booked. Roland was probably still nursing a set of bruised ribs from where she'd taken the sole of her boot to him. And if he mentioned these things, she'd only look at him strangely and ask what else he'd expected.

_Damn, Jess._

He'd realized some time ago that she was by far the toughest girl he'd ever developed a thing for. Her particular blend of pragmatic cop mentality, earthy, easy humour and classy good looks was bad enough, but the fact that she could take him on, verbally or physically, any time of day or night, was lethal. Between that and their status as colleagues, he'd been far more careful about his interest than he ordinarily was - but this was a woman, he thought, who was worth a long wait. His initial gut reaction was right: Underneath it all, Jess was the sort who gave her heart completely, and for good. Not someone to mess around with unless a guy was entirely serious.

He'd been thinking about that a lot, lately.

He realized, too, that Danny wasn't so much annoyed with him, as exhausted and pre-occupied. So was Lindsay. It was only to be expected, given the insane hours CSU was working lately. However, it had been a long time since Lindsay came to work smelling of Danny's soap.

So maybe he wasn't the only one who was having his priorities reassembled by this case.

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There were no solid leads on the missing cab all morning, and he was exhausted, having managed only a few restless hours of sleep. He kept himself sharp with self-reproach, honing the bitter edge of his tongue during interviews with the shifty-looking Five Brothers cabbies, and cold coffee, because it pissed him off and wasn't in the least bit comforting. He opened up other case folders, stared at them, and closed them again.

Stella called him around eleven o'clock. "Hey, sunshine. Guess what?"

"Stel', unless you've found the freakin' cab - " he growled.

"We found the freakin' cab," she said.

He shot upright in his chair. "Where? Sweet. I'll grab Jess."

Jess grabbed him instead, having come up behind without him noticing. She tossed him the car keys and scooped up her evidence camera from her desk as they sprinted past.

Volunteering himself to get his suit grubby doing a visual inspection under the cab didn't redeem nearly losing it early that morning, but it made her smile and roll her eyes, and the day began to brighten a little.

He texted Mac a heads-up, as the tow truck began to haul the cab away, and wondered if there was any work to do that would keep him near the lab. He hated being apart from the action, especially on a major case. Not when they were so close to the finish. He knew the sensation of the net tightening, and it gave him a kick of renewed energy. But where to go from here? Everything was in the hands of CSU now. There were no new leads until the team found something.

Which they had to. They absolutely had to. A skin flake, a partial palm print on the steering wheel, anything.

"So what now?" Jess sighed, echoing his thoughts, and drumming her fingers on the passenger door handle. "We just drive in circles till we spot someone frantically waving in the back seat of another cab?"

"Cases have been cracked on less," he replied. "Sometimes it's the stupid things that lead to a break."

"Let's just go home," she said, and Flack knew she didn't mean her apartment. "Spread everything we got out on the war-room table, get everyone to look with fresh eyes. Maybe find a connection. Anything new comes in, we'll be right there."

It was better than doing nothing, he thought. "I'll call Sythe on the way."

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He put a lamb donair in her hand and parked her in the spare chair at his desk, munching along with her as Hanover, Timothy and Sythe organized the war-room into a sort of Cabbie Killer museum the likes of which nearly rivaled Mac's office. After he finished eating, she smiled a little thinly, and pointed to her courier bag.

"Small pocket on the left."

He found a bottle of caffeine and potassium pills, and swallowed two with a sip of iced tea. The equivalent of two more cups of coffee, without the sour belly, but he'd pay for it later in nerves and gritty-eyed insomnia. He passed her two, and she shot them back dry.

"Next time we all sleep," she pronounced. "We're going to sleep well. Because this _trou du cul_ will be in high-security holding for the rest of his days. Did you sleep last night? You don't look it."

"Not a lot. I'm fine. You?"

"For now. It's easier to stay sharp in daylight anyway."

"Got anything stronger than those pills?"

"Maybe Roland dropped a baggie in the car," she said. "Should we check?"

He surprised himself by laughing out loud, and Jess joined in. She reached out and laid a hand on his wrist, a gesture so natural that he didn't even think before turning his hand over and squeezing, right there in the middle of the office. Her hand felt cool and strong in his, and he quickly let go.

"Today's it. Today's the day we bring this bastard down." he said. "I can feel it."

They joined the team in the war-room, and Hanover brought Mac in over Skype. At least the impromptu conference confirmed that everyone was working off the same information, but until Danny and Lindsay finished with the cab, it was all old information. Mac was as exasperated as Flack had ever seen him.

Two hours later, word came down that Mac's stepson was, quite possibly, the Cabbie Killer's next victim, and CSU had a bead on a possible location. The bullpen turned into an anthill, and Grierson tossed a pair of freshly-charged secure radios at them as they headed once again for the parkade.

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Many hours later, he unlocked the door of his apartment. He was too weary even to eat. He'd send out for something after a bit of sleep, but he badly needed a shower first. He was grimy and grumpy.

It was always like this after a major case was closed. The adrenaline let-down and the lack of sleep and anything resembling regular meals. It was hard to adjust to having nothing left to do. After personally marching Chiron's psychotic avatar into the precinct in shackles, and scratching out his field report for Carmody to polish up, there was nothing more to be done until morning. Even Mac had texted everyone,"Good work, people. Get some rest." from Reed's hospital room.

Under the hot spray, his eyes closed, he admitted to himself that the case closure had little to do with his mood. He'd done well, and earned a damn good sleep to kick off his weekend.

He'd just hoped to see Jess one more time. Even though they'd spent almost twenty four hours together. He didn't have a reason, except that they'd both been invested a hundred and twenty percent in the case, and had kept each other at full momentum until the finish. He wanted to talk to her. Battle comrades debriefing, decelerating. But she'd taken off while he was having a final check-in with Mac at the hospital, and he probably wouldn't see her for a couple of days.

He was a little jarred at the thought that he'd expected her to touch base with him before leaving. They were good friends, and yeah, there was that...something...but it didn't mean they automatically sought each other out.

_Yeah, right_. Of course he did. He just didn't like the feeling that she might not be as compelled do the same. _Donnie's got a crush,_ his brother's voice singsonged in his head. Okay. He could admit to that. He could even admit that in a different situation, he'd have made a concerted effort to get to know her better. A lot better.

Really, a _lot_, a lot better. Maybe even right here in the shower...

He emerged some minutes later and began to towel off, and his phone buzzed in his room. He made a wet dash, and then grinned and stood dripping on the carpet as he read her message.

"I'm supposed to get shipwrecked and comatose all alone?" she demanded. "The Old Hastings Inn on 74th. Hurry up."

So she wasn't out celebrating, he realized. Cops all over New York City would be out knocking one back. But Jess had gone home, and then to a quiet pub near her apartment. Interesting.

At least, since he could hail a cab again, he'd get there pretty quick. "Stoke me a clipper." he typed back. "I'll be there in 20."

Sleep could wait a while longer.

There was a Guinness on the table when he arrived, and Jess was playing with her wine-glass and watching the news ticker scrolling under a college football game. "NYPD NABS MAD CABBIE", said one headline. "FARES TIPPING BIG TONIGHT IN NYC" read another. On another screen, a family of ultra-right whackjobs were getting free airtime by thanking the Cabbie Killer for punishing America for its sins, luckily on mute.

"Not out with the gang?" he asked, by way of greeting.

"No," she said simply, and smiled.

While one drink lasted through their shepherd's pie, they were both near to comatose by the end. He saw the utter exhaustion in her body contrasting with the dark lights dancing in her eyes, when he hugged her goodnight outside her apartment building. Somehow he managed not to kiss her before climbing back into the cab.

He fell asleep too quickly, trying to hold onto the memory of her, slim, warm and triumphant, returning his tight embrace.

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He'd just decided to bring Danny into his plans to cause a little grief for Lindsay, after her stunt with the RealDoll, when Jess breezed towards his desk and planted herself on the edge.

"So, I hear congratulations are in order," she said.

"Eh? What for?"

"The new girlfriend. The one that doesn't put a dent in your city salary over dinner. Pity she can't cheer for you at your games, though."

"Aw, shit." he shook his head. "Monroe told you about that?"

"Oh, no, no. Very upset elderly witness called in to report a couple was having a fight outside a restaurant, and one of them was hauling away a dead body on a handcart. Since no one here had any idea what was going on, I thought I'd better check it out myself. Lucky for you, there were a couple of patrons there with a clue, and one of them gave me, I gotta say, a _very_ accurate description of you. So I called Bonasera, and everything fell into place."

He groaned. Had he offended the Sisterhood lately? He was going to get no peace for a week. "Jess, listen -"

"Listening," she said, leaning against the side of his desk with her arms crossed and her mouth twitching.

"What, you gonna rough me up over this?"

"Maybe. So far the circle is very small."

"Oh, what is this, an extortion racket? You know, it's not that big of a deal. And why am I even - " he raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "It's the CSI's who gotta do all the...you know, poking and prodding. I got nothing to do with that. I just carried the warrant."

"And then you got taken for a knife-wielding maniac, or something, with a shrieky wife and a dead body. If that ain't comedy..."

"Hey, it's not like she was - "

"She?"

"It. Whatever. Not mine, is my point."

"Don?"

"What?"

She levered herself off the desk and walked behind him, as if she was heading out of the bullpen. But she leaned forward and murmured, right into his ear so that every nerve down his backbone stood at attention: "_You're all flustered._"

Before his mouth was closed, she was striding down the aisle between the desks, and calling to Sigurdson to come see her about his strangled college kid out in Queens.

The smell of her shampoo wafted around his mind all afternoon.

It was undeniable now.

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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

"_Garda Síochána na hÉireann_"  
\- The police force of the Irish Republic. Literally, "Guardians of the Peace of Ireland". (And probably the peas of Ireland, too.)

"_...au revoir, tu me manqueras..._"  
\- Farewell (literally: to the next sighting), I'll miss you

"_Tabarnak'! Sacr'ment!_"  
\- Quebécois swear words, based on the Catholic Church terms Tabernacle and Sacrament. Taking the Church in vain was considered especially heinous in old Quebec society, so naturally some terms became used for cussin'.

"_trou du cul_"  
\- Asshole (literally: orfice of the bum)

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_To be continued..._


	3. Genie in the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jess chases a house, Don chases Sam, Sam and Lindsay are chased by the habits of a lifetime, and somehow everyone ends up where they need to be.

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_And all my instincts, they return,  
And the grand façade, so soon will burn..._

\- Peter Gabriel, "In Your Eyes"

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It was a change, at least, from the everyday.

She'd been woken up at five thirty with news of the latest murder to hit her desk. Or, more accurately, Don's desk, but he'd been shuttling between the two halves of the crime scene since three a.m. He'd asked Constable Hilary Moss, a new recruit with the suitable nickname of Mouse, to wake her up - nicely - and invite her to begin interviewing witnesses and neighbors before they all left their houses for the day. And if she could keep an eye on a house floating down the East River, that would be great, too.

"Wants me to what?" she'd asked, sitting up and squinting at the clock.

"Think of the overtime, ma'am."

"Don't...never mind. I'm on my way. Anything else?"

"Well, he did drop a tenner and say something about a _dulce de leche_ latté on your desk when you get here..."

"Aw, Mouse, you rock."

"Thank you, ma'am. Should I have the file sent to your Notebook?"

"No, I'll read the hard copy when I get there. Give me forty minutes, depending on the trains."

"Yes, ma'am."

By way of confirmation, she'd texted him: _You told her to call me ma'am, didn't you?_

_My lawyer says plead the 5th,_ he'd typed back.

She had to admit, it wasn't a bad way to get hauled in. Short of Don himself turning up at her door with a _dulce de leche_ latté in hand, the jeans he wore off-duty, and a whole day to spend...but things like that only happened in her rather active fantasy life.

And Don had been distant lately, anyway, friendly as ever but preoccupied. Lauren Salinas' death, and its connection with Mac's kidnapping, had ripped him apart, though he'd hardly mentioned it afterwards. Even though his sister was in no way complicit in Lauren's murder, and Lauren just an unwitting pawn in a bank heist gone south, he could no longer deny that his sister was not just on the shady fringes of the criminal underworld. Sam had introduced her new friend Lauren around to the usual barflies, and taken her to a party or two, and it all went to hell from there. Sam had delivered Lauren and her bank vault access into grasping hands.

If Sam had figured out even a little of this, it was not to be wondered at that she'd spent the last couple of weeks out of her pretty head, drinking alone, more or less safe in her bar, where at least she had a friend or two to keep an eye on her. Sam was useful to certain parties now, who knew her name and her face, and wouldn't hesitate to make use of her again.

Don lived with that every day, waiting with dread for another call. Jess knew. She'd met the girl just last night, and nearly made that call herself.

Thing was, Sam didn't need to be babysat by her fellow bartenders. And she didn't need to be hauled into the precinct, booked and bedded down and driven home in disgrace by a furious big brother the next morning. She needed more help than that, and she needed Don on her side.

Jess knew very well the difference it made to have a big brother in your corner, or not.

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Despite the lack of information from any witnesses, Jess found herself relishing the absurdity of it all, though she could attribute some of that to the sugar and double-shot latté leaping around in her veins. The case had begun with a pair of freestyling BMX kids doing middle-of-the-night tricks over an exposed cellar stairwell, and ended up in a house being towed down the East River to its new location. There was the added factor of a hungry possum who had compromised their victim's facial ID. She'd enjoy rehashing this one with the guys at Harper's, while they moaned about rounding up the same small-time, brain-addled crooks over and over again for the same offences.

Last night's victim was luckier than some. He, at least, had scored the top police scientists in the city to work his case. Not to mention Detective Blue-Eyes, who was walking towards her.

Don looked weary, but then, he'd been up for hours. He asked about Minetti the sniveling secretary. There was little to tell, but Jess did promise a follow-up on the housemovers.

There was a pause as they both regarded the house on its barge, and the Coast Guard craft cruising alongside. The fact that it was a murder scene held no weight with the movers, who insisted they had to keep to their schedule. Mac agreed with them, however, saying that it would be best to bring the barge to shore as soon as possible. At least it kept the scene isolated meanwhile. And the look of pure glee on Danny's face as he hopped on board the Coast Guard speedboat was worth sticking around for. Nothing to do now but wait for the CSIs to finish collecting.

Jess took a breath and plunged in. "I met your sister last night."

He visibly flinched. "You did!" he exclaimed. "Where?"

"Martinez and I were running down a warrant over in Crown Heights, some party...and a beer bottle suddenly collided with the windshield of our car."

"Sam?"

She nodded sympathetically, cursing her bad timing. She thought she'd tell him in the open space so he wouldn't feel cornered, but maybe she should have told him later on, somewhere quiet. Don was too private a man, and too burdened with family history to deal well with news like this. She knew, from stories he'd told, that Sam was a handful, and had been in plenty of trouble before. Seeing Sam in person last night had brought her off the database query page she'd printed out (on the sly, just in case), and into sharp relief as a young woman who didn't realize how deeply her choices affected her life, and everyone around her. And who had no idea how vulnerable her choices had made her. It was always the smart ones, who thought they could handle themselves...

"Guess one of her friends must've bailed her out, 'cause my phone didn't ring."

"We didn't bring her in. She mentioned you, and..."

"Whyn't you call me, Jess?"

She'd thought of it. Martinez had suggested it. It was Jess who'd decided to wait until morning. "It was the guys she was with that were causing most of the commotion." she said finally. Which was, by and large, true. She hadn't actually _seen_ the bottle fly out of Samantha's hands, and by some quirk of trajectory, the bottle had skidded and smashed in the street without even scratching the windshield. She'd have had plenty more to say, otherwise.

"Awright." He nodded, and stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked away. She expected him to change the subject, but he continued, his voice soft and regretful. "You know...I don't know why my sister does this stuff. My father's washed his hands of her, and I gave him a hard time about it, but...I get it. I'm starting to think he did the right thing."

_Oh, no._ That wasn't what she... "I'm sorry, Don. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's good." He looked her in the eye, and made sure she could see he was telling the truth. "It's good you told me."

He walked away and into his own head.

She thought of following him, but for the moment, there was nothing more she could say or do. She turned back to Rita Minetti and the floating murder scene.

 

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He found her in the bar where she worked, halfway down a longneck lager. She looked good, as usual, which Flack had long ago realized was a problem. When she looked at herself in the mirror, and when she charmed her way out of another appointment with the booking officer, she didn't look like trouble. She looked like a nice kid who'd made a mistake, and wouldn't ever do it again.

Except that she did. Over and over again.

"Two o'clock in the afternoon?"

She turned to him, his baby sister, and he noticed the t-shirt she wore. Kali, the creator and destroyer of worlds. Fitting.

"Hey, come on, I work in a bar. Just call it a perk." She looked up, and registered his expression. "Uh-oh. Someone's mad. All right, let me have it." She held up her hands and braced herself. "I'm ready. Just, what'd I do, by the way?"

He couldn't tell if she'd been too drunk to remember last night, or just wanted to find out how much he knew. If Jess hadn't spoken up for her, he'd have given her what-for right in front of her co-workers. But he kept his words calm and factual.

"You almost got hooked up on a drunk and disorderly last night."

She actually laughed at him. "Aw, come on, Donnie. A drunk and disorderly? That's what me and you used to do, every other Friday after Dad would fall asleep, and we'd sneak out of the house."

"We were kids then, Sam. Come on. This kind of thing is serious, okay?" Sam nodded blithely, and he pressed further: "You hearin' me?"

"Yeah, I hear you. Hey, remember when Dad used to drive us out to the Shores, every Labor Day weekend?"

"No, no, you're changing the subject."

"There was no air conditioning, and a busted radio, and just that one Walkman between the two of us."

She was into the storytelling part of her buzz, which Flack recognized all too well. Nothing like a sad streak and a brew to bring out the poet in an Irishman, or woman. All the Flacks had been there before. And he could have cut her off, told her to can it, but she was right back in the scene she was painting for him, a little girl, her brothers and their father in the rickety old brown station wagon on a hot summer day, giving their mother some time to herself. Nathan was in the front with Dad, the two silently putting up with one another, and he and Sam were sprawled out in the back seat, heads close together so they could both listen to the music.

Sam-I-Am and Don de la Mancha, united against the world.

Prophetic nicknames, however mercilessly Nathan had bullied them for it. Decades later, he still felt like he was tilting at windmills some days, and Sam still lived in a garbled world of her own devising.

"And we would - we would each take a headphone, and listen to that song. You know, the one song, over and over again. What was that?"

He shook his head, either because he didn't know or he'd given up talking sense into her, or both. And part of him was back there, listening to Sam holler because she was wearing shorts and was stuck to the beige vinyl of the back seat, and couldn't move without un-sticking herself like a human Band-Aid. And he'd tell her they'd have to rip her right off the seat and leave her skin behind, and she'd start crying - mostly from boredom - and Nathan would turn and glare at them both before Sam gave up the tears and let out a giggle, and then Nathan, Donald Jr. and Donald Sr. would bust out laughing too.

"I know you remember."

"Don't remember."

"And Dad would be yelling, 'Would you, would you two shut that thing off?' "

"This is family time. We're making memories!" he joined in with her. Quality time, Detective-Sergeant style. He'd learned to accept the bits of attention his father tossed out, knowing that it wasn't Donald Sr's way to be affectionate and gentle. Sam never did. She demanded more, and begrudged him every moment he spent with her.

"Yeah...but Samantha, listen to me. No more free passes. Okay? No more using my name to get out of a jam."

"Donnie, I only asked her if she knew you, okay? I wasn't asking for any kind of favor."

He raised his eyebrows. Did she honestly think he was that dim? Name-dropping "Flack" to a Blue was like flashing a Masonic ring, in some cases literally, given their father's position in that confraternity. They both knew it. They'd all used it, in their youth. But he and Nathan had realized the lack of self-respect that went along with it, and began instead to make their own names worth something. It was easier for Nathan - his name was entirely his own. Flack still struggled at times with the yoke of his father's name. Sam either didn't give a rat's ass, or told herself she was owed something.

Sam shook her head and sighed, and raised her right hand. "Okay. Okay, yeah. I promise I will only ever use your name if I need to borrow money." Which wasn't bad, actually, but her timing sucked. He was not amused.

She rolled her eyes and gave up. "I'm kidding. Okay? You need to learn to laugh a little more, 'cause you're never going to get the girls with this grumpy-mad-dog thing you got going on."

He looked at his baby sister in total surrender. Keel-hauled by her cop brother, more than a little smashed, and she was still on at him to find a good woman and settle down - because she really did want to know he was being looked after. That he wouldn't end up as snappish and grim as their old man.

_No chance of that with Jess around...getting her to laugh so hard she can't breathe is the high point of my week._

It was an unbidden but not unwelcome thought.

Sam grinned at him and rolled her longneck in her fingers before swigging down the last of it. He offered to buy her a coffee before her shift. She thanked him nicely, and he had one too, and they sat at the bar, sharing the space in companionable silence.

 

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She was already dressed for bed in comfy cotton pyjama pants and a tank top, nested on the couch with her current Psych text, when her cellphone buzzed. Ten o'clock. Over the past couple of months, it had become their usual time for winding down the day over the phone, unless one or both were out late or had already crashed. They didn't talk about it. It had just started happening, at some point after the Cabbie Killer was put away, and it was too good to stop.

She fished for her phone among a pile of tape flags and highlighters, in a fold of the blanket.

"Hey, you."

"Hey, you," he replied. "What're you up to?"

"I'm reading up my Jung. Midterm next week. One more course after this, and I'll be into third year."

"That's awesome, Jess. You decided what you're taking next?"

She smiled. Never one to sit still for long, Don hadn't seen the point of going back to the classroom. But he now took a vicarious pleasure in her success. Lately, he'd begun talking about what he might like to study. For those of Detective rank and below, a college degree wasn't technically necessary. The Academy provided plenty of advanced practical training modules and classroom study. To go further, the competitive promotion process usually demanded at least an undergraduate degree.

"Stats, probably." she wrinkled her nose. "Not my forté. But everyone over at CSU has to have done years of it, so if I need help, I know where to go."

"They'll try to get you to join them."

"No, not me. It's amazing, what they do, but it's not for me. Speaking of CSU, how goes the mystery of the floating house?"

"We got a few leads. I got Sig and Carmody on the barge looking for weapons right now. And Monroe thinks she's onto something - I checked in with the lab before I left, and she was planning on stayin' the night. She's in full-on dork mode over there."

"She's gonna be a full-on basketcase tomorrow. And you must be wiped. Weren't you up at two a.m.?"

"Yeah, happens like that sometimes."

She took a breath. "Hey, Don? I feel like I owe you an apology. About Sam. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that, earlier. I should've - "

"No, no, don't worry. Seriously. If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have gone to see her, and it turned out pretty good."

"She okay?"

"Not really. But we connected. Bit of a lift, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Don't ever hesitate to tell me anything, okay? I mean, anything, about Sam or whatever."

"As long as you do the same. I don't want you ever to wonder if I'm not telling you something."

"Me either. I promise, I'll always tell you the truth, even if it ain't pretty."

"I looked up her police history." she confessed. "After her friend Lauren..."

"I figured. I know you'd just have been looking for a way to help."

"I wish I could."

"You help me deal with her. That's maybe the best thing right now."

Jess felt the familiar warmth percolate through her. Denial was a long time past. They were being carried towards one another, inexorably, and to call it by a name would break the spell.

Cops dated cops all the time, some with great drama, others casually and unobtrusively. Partners even made that leap from time to time. It happened. You put your life into someone else's hands, you went through grave bodily danger and emotional hell with them, and you bonded. It was a hormonal response. But a relationship founded and formed in that adrenaline-charged place usually stayed there, and rarely made it through to a normal, settled life. Not to mention the hawkeyed, rapacious gossip that stalked the halls of every police department in the world, and the banal difficulty of navigating any workplace romance.

So they'd been careful not to approach that line. Lately it was more difficult. They'd rarely indulged in actual flirting, relying instead on a sort of subversive anti-flirting and earthy humour. But small touches and compliments kept sneaking in among the banter, at work. The look in his eyes, when he left her apartment after a movie night, or when their eyes met for a moment over the noisy crowd at Harper's, lingered in her memory.

She could admit this dancing along the edge was a massive turn-on. There were plenty of nights she was on the very edge of tumbling him into her bed instead of saying goodnight. It was mutual, that much was obvious. But it all meant too much - and there, the fearless tough-girl stood revealed as actually a little shy. She was falling hard. That hadn't happened in many years. And never with a colleague, who'd become a dear friend and her favourite person to hang out with. She had a growing suspicion Don was feeling much the same way, but...

It was a classic Catch-22, she thought. Getting involved meant that they were serious enough to deal with all the potential fallout together, but how could they be sure of that unless they tried?

"Hey - did your family ever go on summer road trips?" he asked, seemingly out of nowhere. She heard him rustling around, and realized he was already in bed. No wonder. He'd been up for nearly twenty-one hours on little sleep.

"All the time. I only remember one trip with all seven of us, though. I couldn't have been more than three, so the boys would have been eleven to seventeen. We had two camper vans, and we drove all around the Gaspésie..."

He listened as she described four hundred-year-old Québecois farmhouses, and camping under sweet-smelling trees, and by the time she was done, he was almost asleep. He didn't even notice when she switched into French part way through, the soft Québec lilt of her childhood rather than the clipped European accent she'd been trained to speak by the nuns, later on.

"Night, Angell." he murmured into her ear. She closed her eyes and let the shiver drift through her.

"Night, Flack."

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He hadn't expected to go back to Sam's bar so soon, but Lindsay had nearly jumped out of her skin the moment he mentioned he'd seen more of the coded quick-response cards she was grappling with.

At least she'd had the presence of mind to ask him to drive. She hadn't had any caffeine all night, relying on ice water to get her through, and she didn't want to stop for a mocha, which baffled him. She usually mainlined coffee, and would light up like a small Christmas tree over a good mocha. He could only think of a few reasons why she would suddenly go off the stuff, but since Danny hadn't shown any signs of freaking out, perhaps she was just trying to detox for a while.

Lindsay pored over the cards in the foyer of the bar. He went to ask the bartender when Sam would start her shift.

"Uh, her shift?"

"Yeah, when's she on tonight?"

"I guess she didn't...the thing is, she got fired a while back."

"What d'you mean, she got fired?"

"She was a little too fond of kicking one back during her shift, you know what I'm saying? She hasn't worked here for weeks."

"I got 'em," Lindsay called triumphantly, holding up a selection of cards like a bouquet. "You ready?"

_More than ready._ "Yup."

Samantha chose that moment to sashay into the bar, as composed and soigné as though she owned the place.

"Hey! Twice in one week? C'mere." she kissed him on the cheek, and he smelled hops and spearmint gum as he kissed her back. "How lucky am I? Hey, I'm Sam," she continued, noticing Lindsay.

"Hi," Lindsay managed, shaking her hand, and obviously finding it a little hard to keep up with the tipsy whirlwind in front of her. Between Lindsay running on empty and Sam running on ethanol, he figured he'd separate them as soon as they'd said their hellos.

"Are you two dating?" his sister asked brightly, looking from one to the other.

"No, we, ah, work together. Lindsay," she gestured to herself.

Sam smiled slyly, unconvinced. "Okay."

"So what's up, kid?" he asked, feeling the familiar frustration mounting. Drinking on the job, losing her job, and now making inebriated insinuations about Lindsay were not going to earn her any favors, and she wasn't going to lead him down memory lane again. "What're you doing here?"

"I work here. Remember?"

He stared at her. "Take a walk with me," he said mildly, and propelled her towards a quiet corner. He saw Lindsay give the bartender a weary smile, but there was nothing he could do for her at the moment. "You just look me dead in the eyes and you lie to me like that? It's that easy? I know you don't work here anymore, Sam. Your boy just told me you got fired two weeks ago for drinking on the job."

"Okay, so now you know," Sam said, "Good for you. It's not a big deal."

"What is a big deal? What's going on with you, huh? When did you become somebody who spends all day drinking in bars, and all night hanging out with dirtbags in Crown Heights?"

"When did you start to care?" she flung back.

There was a terrible sadness in her voice. He watched her brush past him, past Lindsay, who tried to smile politely, and then she had to hold on to the bar to steady herself.

He couldn't watch anymore.

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He thought Lindsay would make some comment about Sam, but as they drove back to the lab, she only said: "Hey, Flack, you got good friends around you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do. You sure about that coffee? My treat."

"Oh, please, don't mention coffee," she groaned. "What I wouldn't give..."

"Trying to stay off it for a while?"

"Mm-hmm," she replied, and looked drowsily out the window. "Don't mind me. Withdrawal headache and sleep-dep. I just wanna get this done."

He'd been right about the detox. Caffeine was notoriously addictive, and the headaches that followed could be brutal. And a geekette with advanced training in BioChem would know better than most the importance of giving the adrenal system a break now and then. "How come you worked all night, then?"

"Inspiration hit. I didn't want to let it get away. What's a night's sleep, more or less? Couldn't sleep anyway."

She sounded halfway there.

"Okay, okay. We'll be there soon."

He had to nudge her when they reached the lab, and he texted Danny as she went inside: "_L sleepwalking. Do something._"

"_Paging Nurse Flack,_" Danny sent back. "_L headed to quiet room._"

Which was good. The quiet room, a couple of floors below the main CSU suite, was kitted out with futons against the walls, home-like duvets and pillows, a white-noise sound-baffler and blackout curtains. It was for resting only, with no computers, coffeemakers or conversation, something which never needed to be enforced. Sometimes it was used while headache pills kicked in, or for a quick pickup in the middle of a triple shift. During high-profile, all-hands cases, people napped in rotations. Flack was jealous: the cops' version, over at the precinct, was a dormitory-like, painted-brick room with six camp cots, steam pipes clanking overhead, and someone's cellphone always going off.

He continued on to the precinct.

_"When did you start to care?"_ Sam's words echoed.

But he'd never _stopped_ caring. It was just too damn hard to watch her, and he'd run out of patience with her too many times. He'd tried, but she rarely returned his calls. So he'd taken to stalking her, turning up at her jobs or parties where he knew she'd be, usually ending up giving her hell in front of her so-called friends. No wonder she'd kept running further and further away. She still loved him, but she was scared of him. He scared her, because he kept demanding she be something she didn't think she could ever be, but all he wanted was for her to be happy, and healthy, and not in trouble. Could that be too much to ask?

It hit him that he'd never asked her what she might need. He thought back, and couldn't remember asking her anything about her adult life without sounding like he was putting the thumbscrews on her. It was the only was she'd tell him anything. But yesterday, they'd connected. She'd talked to him. Tried to tell him he used to be at the center of her life.

He thought again about the song she'd mentioned. The melody was on the tip of his tongue, and if could just remember a line or two, he could look it up. He remembered Nathan grousing that all he could hear was the drumbeat, and why couldn't they have brought his boombox, so everyone could listen, if Dad was too cheap to fix the stereo?

The image of Nathan's old stereo cruised through his head. He remembered Nathan pretending to be Lloyd Dobbler in "Say Anything", hoisting his stereo over his head while "In Your Eyes" blared out of the speakers -

And then he had it.

Nathan had bought the Peter Gabriel tape after the movie came out. But Don and Sam had loved a different song on the album, though most of the lyrics were too abstruse for their younger selves to understand. It just spoke to some part of them that they didn't have to explain to one another.

It streamed into his mind, incomplete, but more than enough to look it up online.

_I am standing here at the water's edge in my dream  
I cannot make a single sound as you scream..._

_Red rain is falling down, red rain  
Red rain is falling down, falling down all over me..._

_And I can't watch any more  
No more denial  
It's so hard to lay down in all of this..._

It was exactly how he felt, watching Sam.

He pressed a little harder on the gas. He'd grab the album off iTunes, and go see Sam, with a peace offering in hand, and see if she'd join him for lunch, sober or not. At the moment, he didn't care. It mattered more that he could look her in the eyes and tell her that he didn't always know what to do, but he loved her no matter what. Remind her that he did think about her as his sister, and not some prolific offender on his watch list.

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It had been a nice enough street once, a row of apartment blocks marching down each side. Slowly, graffiti and garbage had crept back in, and little kids only came out of their houses to be taken to school, or to sit forlornly on the steps while arguments raged overhead. There was broken glass and trash in the gutter and a strong smell of dope as he walked by an open window. He wished he could move her away, but only she could do that.

He touched the intercom panel.

"Yeah?" she responded.

"Hey, it's me. I wanna talk to you."

"I'm done talkin'."

She sounded pretty bad. She didn't even have the energy left to yell at him. But if she could send him back in time, and remind him of how good things used to be between them, then he could do the same for her.

"Come on, lemme up. I got something for you."

Nothing.

"Sam. I'm your brother. And I'm sorry." He waited. "Don't make me do this out here...Okay. Just remember, you're the one that made this happen..."

He touched a series of buttons on his phone and held it up to the intercom.

_Red rain is falling down, red rain  
Red rain is falling down, falling down all over me..._

After a while he shut off the music, and slipped his phone into his inside pocket. Walked down the cracked steps, and looked up towards her window. The lights were on, and a shadow grew sharper against the curtain as she moved down the hall, but she didn't look out the window.

He walked down the grubby street, and back to his car, pleased. He'd tried. She'd heard him.

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The plan had formed later on, as he wound down the day over a couple of pints at Harper's with Carmody and Hanover, watching a commentary on the early hockey season on ESPN.

He had some proving to do. Sam needed to know she could trust him. And he wasn't above a little more light stalking to make that happen. She had to be getting something out of her friends that she wasn't getting from her family, and if he could find out what it was, he might have a chance.

He considered asking Jess or Danny for their help, but he didn't want to interrupt Jess' studying. Or scare her away from wherever it was they seemed to be headed. And he really didn't want to bring Danny any further into Sam's business without her say-so. Sam liked Danny a great deal, but she was as private a person as all the Flacks, which was part of her problem. She seemed gregarious and open, but she kept everything of any value closely guarded inside.

So he had one last pint with Hanover, after Carmody left, and then decided to set out. He knew he wasn't drunk. Three Sleemans over two hours had him nicely fortified against whatever Sam might toss at him.

Just maybe, Sam would open up more if she knew he'd had a few beers. He'd hardly ball her out for drinking if he'd just come from the bar. Not Don Flack the cop. Just her brother Donnie, like old times, topping each other's stories and making each other howl with laughter. Telling hard truths in among the laughs, because they could always take the truth from each other.

Or did, once upon a time.

He took the subway and then walked back to her street, and sat on the steps of a house a few doors down from her building. If anyone asked, he'd just flash his badge and tell them he was watching a house - which was the truth. But it was the sort of neighborhood in which nobody was likely to approach someone staring down the street. He popped a couple of breath mints anyway.

At about seven forty-five, she emerged, looking exhausted. Her arms were tightly crossed as if she was cold, despite the warm autumn night, and she walked with quick, nervous steps instead of the happy rolling stride he'd come to know. It hit him that Sam wasn't drunk. She undoubtedly had enough in her system that she was still coasting on it, but she wasn't drunk, and she was in a state of such high anxiety that she was near to panicking.

He was glad he'd decided to follow her. If she needed help, he'd be less than twenty feet away, and if she headed into the local off-sales store, he'd run into her as if by accident, and frog-march her out for a proper meal.

Growing more shaky by the minute, she made it to an older brownstone eight blocks away. It housed a series of businesses, and he wondered what she needed there. He hoped like hell she wasn't scoring drugs, and shortened his lead by a few feet. An unplanned drug bust was usually a good thing, but _not tonight, please, God, not tonight._

She slipped like a shadow into the door. It was blind luck that he was able to get inside quickly enough to watch the elevator panel indicate which floor she'd reached, and he followed her to the same floor.

There was only one door open ajar. The sign said that it was an accountant's office, but it was eight o'clock, and he could smell fresh coffee from inside. He stepped silently to the door and peered inside.

Sam was sitting hunched over in a chair, between two other people. Ten in all, sitting in a circle, some with coffee cups in hand.

He knew now. He wanted to pump his fist in the air and cheer her on, but he was shattered. His baby sister was in there admitting that she was an alcoholic, to strangers, because she couldn't tell him. And he couldn't tell her he was proud of her and would do anything to help, because he'd invaded her privacy, and violated the anonymity of the meeting. And certainly not with beer on his breath.

Cops and booze went hand in hand, and always had. The NYPD had done a great deal to combat over-excess among its ranks, but the semi-sanctioned weekly pub nights were really just a way of harnessing the urge. Damage control, but a tacitly accepted outlet nonetheless. Alcohol was still the social lifeblood of the Force, loosening tongues and providing a safe, familiar ground and buffer against the realities of the job. There were those who were known to drink lightly, but except for the high-performance athletes and cancer survivors among them, cops who refused to drink at all were usually considered a little supercilious. He knew he drank a little more than he should, but less than some, and he never gave anyone a reason to call him on it. Too easy a habit to justify, and far too easy to turn into a real problem. There were more than a few AA chapters just for cops.

He realized he'd been personally ticked off at Sam's drinking, partly for that reason. _What have you got to drink about, Sam?_ he'd wanted to yell at her. _You want to see half of what I deal with on a regular shift? You want to go to bed and dream about dismembered human bodies and jumpers floating in the East River, and the little kids?_

Which wasn't entirely fair. He worked his ass off to ensure that the general public never had to think about those things.

He listened, barely breathing, and as he did, his heart sank. He knew that no matter what crazy shit Sam had done in her life, he'd done more harm to her. They all had. And here he was, having automatically run to the bottle after work, when he needed a pickup, just like her. Just like their old man. And Sam...

He had his answer now, the reason he'd followed her here. Sam had told him herself, only he'd taken it for one of her deflective retorts. She was bone-weary of being judged by people who wouldn't even take the time to talk to her, so of course, she'd gravitated first to the party crowd, and then the hard-drinking, sorrows-drowning crowd, where nobody judged anybody for drinking too much. But unlike Donald Sr. and Donald Jr., her drinking buddies were not her colleagues, and they were not her friends. They saw a pretty, needy girl with connections they could use, and she stayed...numb. Told herself she didn't care, and that she didn't have to be alone with her own thoughts, if only she could find another friend at another party to drink with.

Hadn't he gotten her drunk, the first time, when she was thirteen, the two of them sneaking half a bottle of sickly-sweet Carolan's up to his room, giggling in relief that nothing seemed to matter anymore? And hadn't they watched their father, over the long years, go from one finger of Scotch after dinner, to two or three glasses of wine and a tumbler of brandy, nearly every night? Stereotypes were a bitch.

And stereotypes be damned, they were a cop family, one that didn't talk about their troubles and traumas among themselves, but kept them locked down so they could get up and go back to work the next day. There was Irish genetic predisposition working against them, along with everything else. And by the time Nathan packed up and left for college at seventeen, Don had been shut down so often from trying to get his parents to open up that he'd stopped. Sam was stuck in the house with her silent family. No wonder they'd snuck out so often to meet Don's friends who had older, beer-enabled connections.

He was glad she hadn't spotted him. He was well and truly shamed.

"I can't tell anyone. My family? It's like, they're perfect. And then there's me. The screw-up. I guess there's one of those in every family, right? And I guess that's why my last drink was, ah, twenty minutes ago. Yeah, I'm afraid. I'm afraid I won't make it twenty more."

He watched her struggle, and choke on the words, before she managed to say: "I'm an alcoholic. I know I am."

_There but for the grace,_ he thought. This was a hell of a wake-up. _Sammy, you might've just saved the two of us._

_I've gotta talk to Jess about this. Sometime soon. Not tonight._

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It was a little after nine when her phone rang. She smiled. She'd been giving him space, since he had an awful lot to think about today, but she wasn't surprised he'd called earlier than usual.

"Hey, you." she greeted him, keeping her voice light.

"Hey, you. What'cha doin'?"

"Studying still. What's up?"

"Oh. Nah, it's nothing."

This was odd. He didn't sound drunk, but something was going on.

"Don, what can I do? Where are you?"

She felt him hesitate. "Could you - I found Sam. I saw her. I left my car at work..."

_Because I knew I'd be having a few after shift,_ she supplied.

"Sit tight, I'm coming. Give me an address."

"It's an old brownstone building at Harrison and 7th. Two red doors at the front, number 5047. I'll watch for you."

She nodded. "Be there as soon as I can."

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She slid into a parking space across the street from the address he'd given her. It was a nondescript older building, one of a row of residential and retail buildings on the street. Nothing to indicate why Sam would be there, except perhaps to visit a friend. Had Don followed her there and confronted her? On the phone, he'd sounded more sad than anything else. Had she called him for help, and then screamed drunkenly at him to leave her alone, as had happened more than once?

He emerged from the lobby door, still in his suit, but untucked and tieless. He looked beat up inside, and her heart twinged. Something was really wrong.

"You know what..." he began. "I thought I needed a ride, but - "

"You changed your mind, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna walk this one off."

He sounded distant. She decided to keep him under observation a little longer, and looking him in the eye, asked: "You and Sam gonna be okay?"

"We're stubborn." It wasn't the answer, but it was an answer of sorts. She hoped he meant it in a good way.

"_You_ gonna be okay?"

"Yeah." She waited, seeing that he badly wanted to say more, but he only nodded and said, "All right, I'll see ya."

She nodded back, and watched him turn and walk away. _Oh, well._ It gave her a little lift just to know he'd reached out to her. The walk would do him good, and she knew he preferred to sort out his thoughts before sharing them.

Her keys were in her hand when his voice was carried back to her: "Jess."

She spun around. "Yeah?" He was striding towards her quickly. Did he want that ride after all? What did Sam -

_Ohh..._

His mouth was firm on hers, still spicy with beer and wings, and his hand cupped the back of her head as he kissed her. His fingers tightened and tangled in her hair and a hot spark ran down to her belly, fleeting and intense. _Ohgod._ He drew back with difficulty, kissed her again, and let her go, looking as stunned as she was.

"Thanks," he said.

She nodded, slightly open-mouthed, and watched him walk away under the streetlights. _Thanks for coming? Thanks for caring? Thanks for letting him finally kiss her? Or was it just courage in a bottle?_

The giddy grin hit as she turned to her car. _Jessica Cécile Angell, what on earth were you thinking, standing in the street kissing a colleague?_

_Oh, all kinds of things._

The urge to race him back to his apartment was certainly there, but not while he was so caught up in his sister's problems. It didn't take second-year Psych to see that he'd learned something that shocked him badly, and he was feeling the burden of Sam's trouble.

She wondered if she should tail him, make sure he got home all right. It was a warm night, though, and a not a long walk for him. She pictured him pacing the floor of his apartment, trying to focus on some late-night movie. Maybe head out to the all-night gym around the corner. He wouldn't use the in-house gym facility at the 14, not in the middle of the night, knowing that word would quickly carry that the poker-faced Flack was upset about something. And unlike Mac Taylor, he wouldn't plunge himself into working on old files at four in the morning. He wouldn't be able to sit still. His sister must have given him plenty to chew on.

She wished she could call Sam. It wouldn't be so out of the ordinary, an experienced female cop checking up on a young woman she'd let off the hook. Maybe there would come a day when that might happen, when she could win Sam's trust - be a woman to talk to, instead of representing a legion of highly critical, large male relatives, radiating disappointment at her - but that day was nowhere close.

Deciding there wasn't enough information to go on, regarding either Flack sibling, she gave up, cranked some early Tori Amos on the stereo, and headed home.

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Once back in her apartment, she texted him: "I'm home. Call me 24/7. Really."

Twenty minutes later, her cellphone chirped, announcing a message. She padded over to the kitchen breakfast bar, where it lay charging for the morning.

"Thanks, J. I mean it." he'd written.

She called him back. "Hey, you. Get home okay?"

"Hey. Yeah, I'm good."

"You going to get some sleep?"

"I hope so. Got a brainful at the moment."

"I could tell you all about Jung's Theory of Individuation," she suggested. She wandered back to the living room couch and tucked her feet under the blanket. He laughed shortly, and a breath escaped her that she didn't know she'd been holding. Emboldened, knowing they often managed to cover difficult ground over the phone rather than in person, she went on: "You want to talk about it, Don?"

"Yeah and no. I wouldn't know where to start, just now. And some of it isn't mine to tell." he said.

"Sure, I get you. But anytime..."

"Yeah. I appreciate that. I do." He took a breath. "So, Jess. You want to, ah, have dinner tomorrow?"

_Like we don't have dinner together two or three times a week?_ she almost teased him, but didn't. Whatever had propelled him to cross over the line they'd laid down, she wasn't going to challenge him on it.

"Definitely."

"I mean, you know, _dinner._ Somewhere nice."

She knew her wide grin was audible over the line, and she didn't care a bit. "I know. I'm looking forward to it." _And dessert,_ she thought. It was amusing how much of a gentleman he was trying to be, and she wondered how long she'd let him keep _that_ up.

There was a pause, and she wondered if she'd made him pull back, but a moment later, she heard a smile in his voice too, as he asked: "So what's French for sweet dreams?"

"_Tu veux dire, 'beaux-rêves'._"

"_Beaux-rêves_...nah, sounds better when you say it."

She laughed. "_Tres bien dit. Qu'est-ce que_ the Irish?"

"_Codladh samh._" he replied. _Cullah sov._ "And I hope you do."

"You too."

"Oh, I will. Night, Angell."

"Night, Flack."

Were they on the precipice of a big mistake? She didn't think so. They were already so close that it seemed strange now to have waited so long to approach it.

He'd put a lot of honesty into that one small kiss. She knew now. This was serious. This was real. He meant it. And she was restless with the need to get her hands on his skin. That one little taste of his mouth, his touch, was like a sliver of fine dark chocolate on her tongue. She needed more.

She raised her eyebrows in thought for a moment. Then she closed the covers on Jung, and headed for the shower, gathering pyjamas, towel, and trusty waterproof companion along the way.

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He was perched on the edge of her desk the next morning, as she made her way through the bullpen. She didn't hurry her approach, watching him. He flipped through a manila folder, and seemed startled when she appeared next to him.

"Morning. What'd we win?" she asked, peering over his arm.

"Manslaughter plus Theft-Over, high-end clothing store. Store clerk killed by gunshot while putting the day's cash in the safe. The owner's there now. Danny and Hawkes are processing."

"I'll bring my Platinum Card. You eat yet?"

"Yeah, but it feels like it's worn off already."

"Breakfast bagels from Pietro's on the way?"

"I would not complain."

She radioed their destination to Dispatch as they headed for the parkade, and they threw rock-paper-scissors for the car keys. He won, and she tossed them to him with good humor.

When they were eased into the flow of traffic, he cleared his throat and sent her a quick glance.

"Jess, last night...I mean, yeah, of course, I meant it. All of it. You know I'm crazy about you. I just don't want to mess things up."

"You know, I think we're pretty good at not messing things up," she said, jumping in. She was amazed how calm she felt this morning. "And we're way too invested in being good cops to do anything idiotic."

_...give or take the kissing in the street._

They pulled up to a red light, and she looked at him.

"Don, whatever's going on," she said softly, "I want to see where it goes. Do you?"

He nodded, and took a breath. "It's the timing, is all. Really, that's all. This past couple days, it's like all this stuff that was waiting to happen is happening all at once. You and Sam are too important, both of you, and I - I'm good with suspects. I'm sometimes not so good with other people. I don't want to push too hard. Or miss any chances."

He sounded a little stunned towards the end, as though of all the things he meant to say, he certainly hadn't expected _that._ She was charmed.

"Was that a line, Flack?" she teased gently.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "No lines. Sam's got some major stuff going on, and I want to be there for her when she's ready to talk. This might be the one chance I have to make things right with her. I mean, we were so out of touch I didn't even know what kind of car she was driving anymore. She needs...the whole family's gonna be involved at some point, and it's gonna mean opening a lifetime's worth of canned worm for my father and me. It's not fair to ask you to take all that on board."

"You're not."

"Hm?"

"You're not asking me. Where else would I be? If I said one of my brothers was in trouble and my dad was being an ass, would it make you want to back off?"

"All right, all right. Call it fair warning, then. The Flack family is heading into stormy weather."

"Okay. I'm down with that. Any further objections?"

He cracked a grin. "What, is this how it's gonna work now?"

"_Is_ it working?" she asked, with some asperity. She tired for a librarian glare and ended up caving into the giggles rising up inside. He cocked an eyebrow and the old Cary Grant swagger came back, which for him amounted to the same thing.

"I guess you better tell me after dinner," he said.

"Damn straight I will." _Hopefully, in words of one syllable,_ she thought. "Look, Don, this is us, right? There's never going to be a peaceful week or two to sort things out." She paused. "Or is this about you trying to be the dependable son and protect everyone? Sam, your father, yourself, me...'cause you have to know, that's never gonna work. And it's not gonna fly with me, either. I can guess what Sam's dealing with, and you know I'd never interfere. But don't go playing the strong silent type, okay? Everything we've said, about being safe around each other...this is when it counts."

He looked away into the middle distance, and nodded thoughtfully. She reached out to slide her fingers through his. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, and she blinked and drew in a breath, intrigued at the thrill from such a small touch. Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips over her knuckles.

"Why don't we make an early reservation," he suggested, conversationally. His eyes met hers again, very blue in the morning light, watching her. Her stomach flipped. Last night's kiss stirred in her memory, brief as it was, and a surge of desire twisted through her. She tried not to stare too obviously at his mouth. Oh, Jesus, if one little kiss got her going like this...

"You know," she said, smiling, "Let's just order in. I don't feel like sharing you with the world."

He held her gaze for a moment, with a wicked little grin. "Me either, actually."

He put her hand back in her lap and turned back to the road, as the traffic began to move. They were silent for a short space of time.

_Could it really be so simple?_ she thought. Butterflies there were aplenty, but anticipation and plain curiosity were far louder. _This doesn't feel fast at all. It feels like we've been together a long time. It's just us. It might not be the best, time, but it's time. It's what we've got._

She badly wanted to reach out and touch him, but they were Flack and Angell, and they were on the job. They were already well over the line. Thank heavens the City had turned down the latest citizen demand for video recorders in all police vehicles.

"Music?" he asked eventually, needing to re-focus. He pulled his Treo out of his inside breast pocket, and held it up.

"Go ahead."

He leaned forward and plugged the small interface cable into the car stereo jack, thumbing through a few songs before settling back. "Flashback time. Remember this?"

She cocked her head and listened. "Hey, yeah."

_Just let the red rain splash you  
Let the rain fall on your skin  
I come to you, defences down  
With the trust of a child..._

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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

"_Tu veux dire, 'beaux-rêves'._"  
-You want to say, "beautiful dreams"

"_Tres bien dit. Qu'est-ce que the Irish?_"  
\- Very well said. What's the Irish?

"_Codladh samh_."  
\- Sleep well.


	4. In This New Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Good, the Bad and the Snuggly

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_We could live for a thousand years  
And if I hurt you, I'd make wine from your tears  
They told us that we could fly  
'Cause we all have wings  
But some of us don't know why..._

\- INXS, "Never Tear Us Apart"

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"So me and Montana, we're havin' a baby."

Flack's dart went wide, hitting the wall broadside and clattering harmlessly to the floor. He jerked his head around to stare at Danny. "_What?_ You serious? Lindsay's - "

"Yup."

"Wow. How you dealing?"

Darts was apparently over. Danny scooped up both sets and dumped them in the cigar box, and motioned Flack back to their table, where the remaining half of their drinks waited. Single malt for Danny, and a single Pale Ale for Flack, the one drink he now allowed himself at the end of the week, most of the time.

"Oh, total shock, at first. Shakes and everything. But we've been talking a lot. It's good. I think we're good." Danny said, sitting down.

"Didn't you guys just get back together a while ago?"

"Uh huh." Danny mumbled into his drink, and took a swig. Flack quietly put two and two together, and came up with crazy unprotected reunion sex, and decided it was more than he really wanted to know. Being a detective had unexpected drawbacks from time to time.

He'd wondered why Lindsay had suddenly quit caffeine cold-turkey, and he hadn't bought any of her reasons for not coming out with them anymore. Of course, he realized now, someone would have asked her point-blank about her lack of beer. Everyone knew Montana could hold her own. She'd never out-drunk Danny or himself, but she'd come pretty close to keeping up, which was no mean feat for a little thing like her.

The best line she'd invented was: "Danny and I were smothering each other, and we both need time with our own friends." It was clever, since it was impossible to disprove, but it was clearly a ruse, especially since Danny had whined about her absence more than once. Flack had let it go, figuring it was none of his business what they did, as long as they didn't go breaking each other's hearts again. He didn't enjoy putting Danny's boots to the fire to make him confess his infidelity, as much as Danny had practically forced him to do it.

Worse than that had been simply watching them every day. It was none of his business, but it was real, and raw, and they were both bleeding all over the place. If they hadn't patched things up, sooner or later one or both of them would have made some suicidal career mistake. Lindsay was still kicking herself for leaving evidence unattended in the lab, during the worst days of their separation.

But inexplicably, sometime during the peak intensity of the Cabbie Killer case, they'd found a moment to reconnect. Flack didn't have the details, nor did he want them, but he'd been unexpectedly glad to see them back in their places. Fondly hectoring one another, challenging each other, whacking each other like a pair of cootie-crush kids in the schoolyard. They'd nearly found their balance again, though everyone noticed how careful they were around each other now.

And now this. Lindsay pregnant. Their sweet little country girl, great with child. Holy shit. He had visions of a smart-mouthed gamine with stubby pigtails and guileless brown eyes, getting in trouble for beating up the class bully. And talking her way out of it.

"So when's she due?"

"Early May. We told Mac at work today. Stel' already knew, go figure. Lindsay said she didn't mind me telling you, but we're keepin' it down-low for now, right? It's still early days, and you know everyone'll be all over her, and she hates that..."

"Yeah, of course. And congratulations, Danno, really. How's she doing?"

"Puking a lot. Sleepin' a lot. It's rough. We're gonna call all the parents tonight. Don't know if I'mma get a beat down or a slap on the back, or both. Probably both, from mine, but they always loved her. She's got this thing with my mother, they gang up and it's scary. Her folks, I dunno. They're pretty laid back. Probably just want to make sure she's doin' what she really wants...and I don't think they know we went through a bad patch before. I don't know if she told them."

"Just as well."

"I guess."

"Messer." He cleared his throat. "Don't fuck this up, or I will have your ass. You know what I mean."

"I fuck this up, my ass is all I'll have left to play with anyway. Seriously, I know. This is all really happening. I'm just trying to keep flying straight. I know."

Flack nodded slowly and finished the last swallow of his beer. Moment over.

"So, Daddy, huh?" he said.

"I know, huh?"

"Never thought I would see the day."

"Yeah, I always figured you'd settle down before me."

"You guys gonna get married?"

"Baby steps."

"Eh?"

"Montana's words. She doesn't wanna go too fast."

"Forgive me for stating the obvious, here..."

"I know, I know. I asked her, okay? I asked her."

"And she...really? Aw, shit. This about the thing with Rikki?"

"Ah...sort of? Shit, I don't wanna talk about that. First she says she doesn't _expect_ anything of me, whatever the hell...then when I ask her, she says 'No', flat-out. Then today she asks me do I really wanna be pushed down the aisle."

"Well, do you?"

"See, that's the thing. I don't want her to be right, but she's right. I mean, I wanna be there for her, and this baby. Man, it's...it's huge. I never thought of having a kid, ever. But it's all happening, and I can't miss it. Me and Linds, we're still, I dunno, finding our feet. Suddenly this baby's all we're talking about, and it's great, it's really great, but she's right. We're not there yet. For all I know we could end up friends with a baby between us."

"There's worse things than being friends with a baby between you." Flack pointed out. "We see worse every day."

"True enough."

"But not what you want?"

"Not even close. I love her, man. Really, I do. She's it. I know she loves me, God knows why. But that doesn't make everything just fall into place."

Flack nodded with real sympathy, for both of them.

He was sorely tempted to return Danny's trust and tell him about Jess, about how twelve years of keeping his dating life scrupulously apart from work had come to a magnificent halt. (The old triteism about barely making it into the apartment? Not trite. _God._) He was pretty sure that if he talked to Jess, she wouldn't mind Danny knowing they were together now. Except that it would mean bringing Lindsay into the circle, which wouldn't be a concern, but which began to make the whole privacy decision a moot point.

Besides, he wasn't sure he'd be able to wipe the silly grin off his face once he started talking. (Renewed inspiration to be a better man and a better cop? Also not trite.)

It was Danny's moment anyway. He kept his silence.

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"You're good at this undercover schtick," Stella told her. "Scary-good. If you weren't so memorable, I bet the department would make use of you."

"How do you know they haven't?" Jess returned, mysteriously. They snickered over their lunch trays, trying not to attract too much attention in the precinct Mess Hall. "Seriously - it went well, and it was fun, but what happens next? Diakos has dangerous friends, and bad things keep happening when people get too close to him. I mean, I get that you need to be invisible, but I'm starting to think I'm gonna need a wire _and_ proper backup next time. This isn't some fishing expedition."

"I know," said Stella. "I'm trying to put something together. I'd never put you in danger, Angell."

"Well, what does Mac say? I know he's managed bigger stings than this. Or is Sinclair getting bogged down with all the diplomatic immunity issues?"

Stella looked away, and back at Jess.

"Ah," Jess said, nodding.

"You're not ticked off?"

"Me? Hell, no. But it's gonna have to work out, and bigtime, or we're both in serious shit."

"And not just professionally," Stella admitted. "Honestly, I understand if you need to back away. I'm flying under the radar here. The boys are going to hate it when they find out."

"Very likely," said Jess, "So let's make it the best takedown of the year."

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Keeping cases at an impersonal arms'-length was standard procedure, for plenty of good reasons, but when a case got through the armour and hit home, everyone felt it. Hawkes had spent the day in a sort of dull shock punctuated with outbursts, re-living the trauma of his ex-girlfriend's brutal rape. Each person on the team had felt the ripple effect of their quiet medical man's reactions, and had pulled out their A-game for him.

Flack had felt like a tool for bringing Hawkes' personal involvement to Mac's attention, but it couldn't be helped. Convictions had been lost on far less than a CSI's prior connection to a victim.

He'd had tried to talk to Hawkes, after it was all over. Hawkes said he understood. Flack knew that he was being intellectually honest, at least. Hawkes knew that Stella had shot and wounded Colin Clark, and that he would likely serve consecutive sentences for every rape, but this justice was an empty vindication. As tough as Kara was, and as well as she had put her life back together, she would never forget. And Hawkes would have a lifetime of wondering what he might have done differently for her.

Stella explained her decision not to take a justifiable kill shot as being far less humanitarian, as being able to live with herself afterwards.

"You simply can't imagine the rage," she said to him, standing in Mac's office. Mac hovered nearby, lending her support via their usual wireless uplink. "If I'd killed him, it would have been in anger. Revenge. We don't do that. I'd turn in my gun in an instant if I thought I'd slipped that far. I can't say it didn't feel good to take him down, and that's bad enough."

But by the end of the day, with the case solved and the adrenaline fading, they were all touched with melancholy, thoughtful and in need of human connection. Flack knew that Mac had left together with Stella and Sid. Adam and Kendall were no doubt transmuting sexual frustration into some sort of game night. Danny had convinced Hawkes to come to dinner with he and Lindsay, to the senior Messer's house for a proper Italian meal. Danny had asked him, too, reminding him that Elina and Joe had asked after him specially, but Flack had taken a rain check, not wanting to explain that Jess was waiting for him.

Jess had, indeed, texted him a quick message letting him know she was booking off a little early, and asking if he wanted to continue their Inspector Morse marathon over Thai takeout. He couldn't have dreamed up a better way to put this case behind him. He was a willing convert to the whole idea of counteracting a sordid day with a little human kindness and affection, but he needed not to be Danny's tough sidekick tonight. And he really needed Elina not to turn her attentions to his personal life, now that Danny looked to be settled down for the long haul. Not with Danny smirking across the table like a bratty little brother.

"Yes!" he'd replied to Jess, in his usual Blackberry-ese. "Bring what?"

"Just you." she'd replied. "Heading for bath. Use your key."

Giving her some downtime, he'd done a few errands on the way, picking up his laundry and a couple new toys for his home computer. She was still in her bath when he arrived at her apartment, and he called her name from the entryway. Surprising a cop was rarely a good idea, and surprising a cop in her own living room was definitely unwise, even for a boyfriend with free access.

"Hey!" she called back.

"You in danger of drowning?" he asked. "Need a buddy?"

She gave a quick huff of laughter. "I think I can manage. I'll be out in a minute. Make yourself at home."

So he did, shedding his shirt and shoes and socks in her room, and adding a few items to his small stash of clean clothes. Foraging in the kitchen for chips and salsa, he noticed her kettle was cold, and put some water on for tea, knowing she'd want some after her bath.

He enjoyed these moments of homey comfort. They'd been frequent visitors long before they got together, even trading apartment keys shortly after Sythe had started teaming them up on major cases on a regular basis. They'd worked through many a night at one of their dining tables, paperwork in among the takeout boxes, catnapping between double shifts. The ease with which they fit into each other's spaces had been just one of many signs along the way, he thought. Neither of them brought friends home very often, needing a quiet haven after the days they often had, but they never seemed to crowd one another. If either one of them had wanted time alone, it would have been an easy thing to mention, but for the past two months, they'd taken advantage of every shared night off they could.

And a few mornings, too.

He was sprawled on the couch when Jess emerged, damp and rosy, in her long scarlet satin dragon robe, her hair clipped up. She looked enticingly geisha-like, but for her usual Troop Commander bearing and stride.

She leaned over and kissed him hello, poured her tea, and settled herself at the other end of the couch, her legs tucked under her.

"You okay?" he asked. She nodded and sighed, and filched a few chips.

"Few bruises from the platform, but nothing major. At least we caught the asshole this time, and he won't ever get out. Sythe said the D.A.'s actually recommending he be kept in secure lockup for his own safety. I feel so bad for Hawkes...I'm glad he's not alone tonight."

He nodded and reached out with his foot to rub her knee. She smiled and lifted his feet into her lap, absently stroking. "So tell me again about this wedding gown race?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood. "It sounds worse than a reality show gimmick."

"Running of the Gowns," he said. "Sane women gone mental over discount shopping. My hand to God, they were like animals."

Jess snorted. "They were. Pure competitive breeding instinct, give or take a few thousand years of social programming."

"Jeez, and I thought I was cynical."

"Hey, I'm not dissing tradition, but it's not my thing. Why would I go deep into debt for an event I'm going to be too stressed out to enjoy, and have to endure all my relatives in one room? I get that every Christmas."

"No white wedding for you, huh?"

She flashed him an amused smirk. "Only if it's a comfy summer dress and I'm on a nice warm beach somewhere."

He filed that away somewhere, and switched tracks. "You know, I've never seen you in a dress, except for that one undercover gig. Or a skirt, even. Just that. Which is sexy as hell, by the way."

"Glad you like. Really, you haven't? I mean, I don't wear skirts much, but I do have some."

"Well, we're always at work, or hangin' out after work, I guess. Or not dressed at all." He grinned, and used his toes to push the edge of her robe over her thigh. She tried to swat him away and put her cup safely on the coffee table all at once, and ended up tumbling off the couch with a shriek, landing in a giggling heap on the floor. He leaned over to check on her, laughing too, and she looped her arms around his neck. He scooped her back up and into his lap, loving the feel of her against his skin. This playful Jess wasn't one that most people got to see, but then, even fewer ever saw playful Flack.

"You angling for a fashion show or something?" she asked, between kisses.

"Hey, they're your legs, babe."

"But you enjoy them," she said, as if coaxing a confession. She ran her hand over his chest, sliding her fingertips over a sensitive nipple. He sucked in a breath and purred deep in his throat, and smiling, she leaned in to kiss his neck.

He unclipped her hair from its loose knot, letting the strands fall through his fingers.

"You know I do." he said, and reached for the belt of her robe, watching her eyes as he tugged it undone. He kissed her softly, to tease her, as he slid his hand beneath the satin. The catch of her breath and the arch in her back as he stroked the soft curve of her breast made his head spin. He parted her mouth with the tip of his tongue, sliding her robe over her shoulders to fall around her. Christ, but she was glorious naked. He let his palm skim along her thigh, smooth and silky from her bath.

He felt her fingers through his hair, her nails in his scalp, and he ducked to sink his teeth into the cord of her throat. She gave a sharp little moan and sought his mouth again, kisses diving deep, rough with hunger. His hand closed convulsively over her hip, pulling her closer. Her hand shimmied down between them to the button of his trousers. _Jesus. Okay, girl...right here._

But she pulled back and dragged in a breath. She touched his face, and climbed off him, standing nude and flushed in front of him. For a second he thought he could see the heat shimmering off her body.

"Bed?" she asked, smiling, and took his hand.

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He woke sometime in the night, still with a pleasant afterglow circulating in his limbs, and his belly growling. They'd never gotten around to dinner. The neon signs across the street had been turned off, and the rush and flow of traffic below had dwindled to an occasional engine. So the bars must have let out some time ago, but it wasn't yet daylight.

His mind was full of the sort of middle-of-the-night thoughts that usually disappeared with the morning light and a return to duty. The hours before dawn saw the worst crimes in the city, and were the hardest hours for him to sleep through. He often woke around now, his senses alert, listening for sounds from the street below, not wanting to miss the quiet buzz of his cellphone that heralded an early callout.

Jess was many things, funny and overly intense, wise and danger-drawn, but at this time of night, she was a beacon of goodness and sanity to hold onto. Curled into him like this, with the curve of her back fitted to his front like they were made from different sides of the same mold, the world seemed like a different place. The quiet rise and fall of her breath spun a cocoon of comfort around him.

The fact that they worked out the frustrations of a bad day or the occasional collisions of their stubborn natures in bed, or sloughed off the remains of a sickening case in the mindless release of pleasure, was not lost on him. Their work was part of them. They knew perfectly well when they were making love, and when they weren't, and they didn't have to explain it. In the end, it always came back to them. Reminding each other how to feel, to play, and that they weren't facing any of it alone.

His father, in a rare moment of emotional lucidity, had once confided that the realization of love was like waking up in a new country with half a map. "Thank God your mother lent me her half, or I'd still be lost." said that militaristic figure, who at the time had been married for thirty years. He still brought home fresh flowers for his wife every Friday.

Flack thought he was beginning to understand.

He whispered into her hair: "Jess, I didn't even know I could fall for anyone like this."

He felt the words sink deep into himself. For a moment, he just breathed. Maybe the Clark case had served as a sharp reminder to them all to reach out to the ones they loved, or maybe it was just time. But what would happen if he told her out loud, detective to detective, fully dressed and in daylight? He'd never known a relationship to move ahead so quickly. He'd never had a best friend who became his lover. He had nothing in his life to compare with Jess. They made sense together.

He realized her breathing had changed. Was she dreaming? He carefully rose on one elbow and looked down at her face. Her eyes were open wide. He felt his heart jump.

She turned and slid her hand over his chest.

"You, too?" she asked softly, as if they were trying not to wake anyone.

He nodded, and covered her hand with his. "_A solás mo chroi._" he said.

Her eyes were luminous, dark within the framing curtain of her hair. "So are you," she whispered. Her fingers beat a gentle tattoo, over his heart.

"How d'you know what I said?"

"I just do. _Solace de mon coeur._" She took a breath, and continued, in an awed murmur: "_J'ai cru que j'aurais peur si je suis tombé si profondément amoureux, de la perte de moi-même. Mais je n'ai pas peur. Je suis plus vraiment moi-même que j'étais jamais._"

Lying in his arms, she stroked his chest as she spoke, slowly and easily, and his eyes fell half-closed, her voice washing over him. The palm of her hand slid over the knotty matrix of scar tissue under his ribs and stopped. His eyes opened again. Holding his gaze till the last moment, she ducked her sleek head and pressed a series of kisses to the old wound. The area was still a morass of numb and sensitive patches, which probably mirrored his own self more than he'd like, but he caught her point.

_You, me, we're the sum total of everything we've been through in this life. How incredible to be able to share it all, with no fear, without reservation._

Her touch sent frissons of sensation all over his body. He sat up against the headboard and pulled her close to kiss her, sliding deep and searching as the tinder caught and the heat took over. And yet he didn't want to lose himself. He wanted to be completely present and remember this, every moment.

"_Mon amant, je pense que tu me veux d'encore..._" she smiled slyly, her hand finding him half-hard and rising.

That much he understood.

"_O Crísto, na stad..._" he murmured. He trailed his fingers down over her collarbone, down the swell of her breast to the tight, peaked tan nipple, and stroked it lightly and slowly, over and around, watching as the spasm of pleasure stiffened her spine and took her breath. "_Ta tu go h-aileann._" He moved lower, over the silky warm skin of her belly, the crisp curls at her center. Her thighs parted and he went deeper, exploring, his cock thickening in her grasp as he found her slick and responsive to every touch.

She sat up and straddled his lap, her hand still caressing him steadily, her lips brushing over his throat and chest, and he was soon ready for her again. As soon as he was protected, she rose and took him deep and full inside her. His fingers dipped between her legs, seeking out her firm little clit, slowly, in time with their rhythm. Her eyes closed, and she wrapped her arms around him, riding it out, unrushed. He had a sense of something powerful coming unleashed between them, the hunger and pleasure rising and rising till they were both gasping with it, aware of every tremor, every breath. At the end, she twisted herself down on him, clenching him tighter, and seemed to stop breathing entirely, shuddering in his arms till a final cry escaped her, and he let his own release take him, groaning into her neck.

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"Donnie?" she murmured into his chest.

"Mm?"

"I'm _starving_."

"Me, too. Guess we were bad kids. Sent to bed without dinner." She snickered, and he kissed her damp forehead.

"There's a pizza in the freezer. Hawaiian, I think." she said.

"That sounds amazing."

"We're going to be zombies tomorrow."

He laughed quietly. "We'll deal. We'll deal with all of it."

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They hadn't set the alarm, for once, neither having a morning shift. They'd stayed up until two, talking and watching a late movie, but, roused by her internal alarm, she woke before he did. She spent a moment just watching him. His sleeping form was becoming familiar, and she felt no less of a pang every time, to see him so relaxed and untroubled.

Hungry as she always was, first thing in the morning, she slipped regretfully out of bed, tucking the quilt carefully over his shoulders, and wandered naked into the kitchen. She'd start the coffee and the small first breakfast he always teased her about.

"I can't help my metabolism," she'd shrug, and ladle a generous spoonful of marmalade onto her toast. He wasn't an early-morning person, but he often caught up with her after her morning run, when she stopped for a proper hot meal. Jess Angell's sausage-bacon-and-egg breakfasts had become part of NYPD lore. As much as she protested that whole grains and protein were just part of her normal morning eating plan, she still got a ribbing, usually from older cops whose wives had them on yogurt-smoothie breakfasts to combat their patrol-car waistlines. Or Don, who could never understand eating a green salad for dinner.

As the coffee brewed, she carefully poked her head out of the apartment door for witnesses, and scooped up the morning paper. She'd get a head start on the crossword and bring Don the sports section with his coffee. In the nude. Major girlfriend points. She grinned. Nice slow morning, until the swing shift started at noon.

Only it didn't happen that way.

She heard her phone buzzing on her night table, and ran on tiptoe to grab it before he did. He was programmed to wake instantly, of course, but whether he was alert enough to pick up the right cellphone was another matter.

"Angell."

"Morning, Jess. It's Sythe. Sorry for the early roll out."

"Yes, sir. What's up?"

"Couple urban snowboarders stumbled upon a severed foot. In a dumpster. How soon can you attend?"

"I'm on my way."

"I'll forward the 911 call audio to your Notebook right now. And see if you can find Flack," Sythe went on. "His battery must be dead or something."

"Oh - yeah, of course. I'll try to track him down."

Tracking Flack down wasn't difficult. He was sitting up and pulling on his boxers as he listened in, and she filled in the blanks.

"I made coffee," she finished, and kissed him. "And you forgot to plug your phone in."

"You're a star," he said, still groggy. "Now for the love of God, would you put some clothes on?"

"See something you like?"

"Plenty."

She giggled and twisted out of his reach, and rummaged in her bureau for underwear and a pair of jeans. He'd been with her for three days straight, and the comfy domesticity was only getting nicer.

"There any clean stuff left of mine?" he asked, sneaking up behind her.

"One last change. Guess you're going to have to go home," she sighed regretfully. "Or I could just throw 'em in the wash here."

"Nah, I gotta go home sometime. Haven't even checked the mail. You could maybe stay with me for a bit..."

"That's true," she said, muffled by her pullover top. "Not like I have any fish to feed."

"You want to?" he asked. He sounded so hopeful that she had to smile. She ran her fingers over the morning stubble on his jaw, and kissed him again.

"It's not a bad idea. Let's decide after shift."

"Sounds good."

"We better hustle. Sythe'll be hopping mad if we're late."

He groaned. "Oh, God, Jess, it's too early..."

"C'mon, chop-chop, one foot in front of the other."

"I haven't had my coffee yet, or I'd be running circles around you."

"Hey, that wasn't bad."

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As they pulled up to the station, with young Todd Fleming in the back, Jess turned to him and said, in her best Donna Reed voice, "Okay, honey, you spend some quality time with Junior, and I'll make us all some Kool-aid."

"Yes, dear." he waggled his fingers at her and exited the car, to let Todd out.

The kid was too scared even to comment on this, which, he thought, was strange, considering he was a brain as well as a wrestling jock. Maybe his parents had just raised him not to talk back to adults in authority, even adults being ridiculous. He certainly paid attention to his coach. At any rate, Fleming got out of the car and went with them into the station, where all hell was on the verge of breaking loose.

Cadillac Kligman, a small-time UFC-fighter, was revving up for a full performance. Resisting arrest didn't begin to describe the scene. When Kligman wasn't on speed or strung out by years of steroids, he hated cops with the heat of a thousand suns. When he was high, he was only controllable by sheer physical containment, to the extent that he had successfully sued the NYPD for assault. It was hard to tell which state he was in at present, but a dozen cops were gathering in a circle around him. A handful of visitors and witnesses were being quietly escorted into the back offices behind the bullpen.

Todd looked about to wet himself at the sight.

"I'll get started on the paperwork. Better get him out of here," said Jess. Flack nodded grimly.

"Have fun." he said.

Flack shepherded the frightened kid around the mêlée and into an interview room, hoping to find a friendly constable to sit with him while he went back out to help with the six-million dollar man. But every available pair of hands was in the bullpen, and he couldn't leave Todd unattended. So much for fostering a sense of calm control and trust. This interview was not off to a great start.

"I wanna talk to you about the e-mail Nelson sent you, the day he was murdered." he began. Todd answered hazily, and Don wondered briefly if he was drugged, or just being a punk. "Hey, Todd. Wake up." he snapped his fingers. "Come on, I know you got his e-mail and I know you were on his roof."

"It's crazy. It's our fault."

"Is there someone else involved?"

"Wasn't s'possed to..."

"You talking about Vince Nelson's murder?"

"Can I go, or what?"

Time to put the scare on, just a little bit. The quiet kid was copping quite an attitude, once he felt the heat.

"Todd!" he slammed his palms down on the table. "Your coach was murdered. Now tell me what do I gotta do to get your attention, here?"

Todd had jumped, but now his eyes slid closed, and he began to topple from his chair.

"Hey - " he grabbed him by the arms, and tried to keep him upright. The kid was sweating heavily, and was slippery and trembling, and he slipped out of Flack's grasp onto the floor, where he began foaming and convulsing.

He ran for the door. In the bullpen, he heard Jess barking: "Hey! That's my _desk._ Get down, _now!_ Get on the floor, _now!_ Take him!" and then the angry bellowing was reduced to a muffled roar as Kligman was taken down by every pair of arms within reach.

"I need an ambulance in here!" he shouted over the din, "Get me an ambulance!"

Jess whirled and met his eyes, and holstered her weapon. She pointed at Carmody, and hollered, "Make the call!", and followed Flack back to the interview room. He was administering CPR by then, and between compressions, he managed to tell her that Todd had had a seizure. Jess listened for breathing and felt for his carotid pulse.

"He's dead. _Don_...he's dead."

Flack finally heard her. He sat back on his heels, and felt shock and grief and horror massing inside. And Jess...my God, a kid had just died in his care, and Jess was right there watching. He was sickened.

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"Look, Detective Flack did everything by the book The guy's a total professional."

"Unlike your relationship with him, which I understand is less than professional."

"Not only is that none of your business, but it has nothing to do with Todd Fleming's death." she rapped out. It was hardly the moment for a philosophical chat as to how their relationship was far more than professional, rather than anything less. The inspector looked at her with a sort of satisfaction. He closed his manila folder and rested his hands on top of it.

"You're free to go, Detective."

"Have you heard a word I've said?"

"I've heard plenty."

"Then if you're not going to take any of it into account, why have you wasted both of our time?"

"We were hoping that it wouldn't be a waste of time. But you have nothing of interest to tell us, so you're free to leave."

"So if I hadn't defended him to you, you wouldn't have cared what sort of relationship we had."

"Probably not." he shrugged. "Don't let it get to you. That's the way it goes."

She stormed out of the interview room and straight to Flack's desk, which was, she realized later, a mistake of the sort she thought she'd outgrown.

Flack greeted her with a tight acidic smile. "Say hello to the newest member of the rubber-gun squad. I've been officially removed from active duty."

"How did they know we're seeing each other, Don?" she broke in. He looked confused.

"Who?"

"Internal Affairs. I thought we were going to keep this thing quiet. I didn't say anything to anyone. That only leaves you."

"People talk, they make assumptions."

"Yeah, well, because of those assumptions, my word doesn't mean squat with IA. Who could've told them?"

"Look, Jess, I'm sorry. But I've got bigger things to worry about right now than squad room gossip."

His words filtered through her churning mental monologue, and she stopped in her tracks. She'd jumped into the deep end, as usual, without checking the water. A kid had died under his hands a couple of hours ago, and now he'd had his gun and his work taken away. The look on his face was heartbreaking. No wonder she hadn't wanted to see it while she was still smarting.

She wanted to reach out and touch him, since everyone apparently knew about them anyway. But that wouldn't have gone down so well. And she was steamed. This was not a good time to try to talk.

"Right," she said softly. She felt his gaze as she turned and walked away.

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"I didn't know you liked hockey."

"I don't."

Flack grinned and let Mac lead the way. As they reached the doors, he said, "Mac, you know, it's a nice thought, but I'm happy enough just grabbin' a burger somewhere."

"Oh, I'm getting into it. I might develop a taste someday. Seriously, Don, you were right. You've been riding that desk all day. You need to blow off some steam."

"True enough. All right, I'll meet you there."

In the cab, he sat silently, trying to piece the day together. Waking up to Jess being called in early. Fleming dying under his hands. Jess, rightfully, furious about having her credibility called into question on account of their relationship. Sitting at his desk all day, beset by doubts...was there some unknown medical factor he'd triggered in Fleming, that caused the kid's death? Avoiding the looks and the silences, all day. The utter contempt and suspicion with which the department seemed to regard one of their most reliable men.

And then finally, vindication. Cleared of all suspicion...so long as nothing remotely like it ever happened again.

But still no Jess. He tried once again to call, but her phone was still going through to voicemail, as it had been all day. So much for her coming to stay with him for a while. Was it possible she was already at his place, waiting for him? But surely she'd have checked her messages by now. He hadn't seen her since early afternoon, after IA had run roughshod over her.

"Jess, it's me again. I'm going out with Mac for a bit, I'll be home around ten, ten-thirty...I'll try you then, usual time. 'Bye."

He'd decided that giving her a specific window of time might be a good idea. If she wanted to talk to him, she'd know when to expect him. If she didn't, well - he'd try something else. He just wished he knew where her head was. Whether she was pissed at him for sounding like he was dismissing her, or whether she was feeling badly that she'd vented on him while he was under investigation and dealing with a young kid's death on his watch. Or both. Her silence was unusual, and weighed heavily on him. They talked every day, and he'd thought they could work through anything that came up.

His phone rang in his hand, as he was sitting thinking, and he jumped. But it was Danny, not Jess.

"Flack."

"Yeah, it's me. Where you at? I wanted to buy you a beer."

"Mac beat you to it."

"_Mac_ beat me to it? Well, that's good, I guess. You guys doin' some talkin', or what?"

"Nah. Ranger game. We're meeting up at Mulvaney's, that new place on Lafayette. You should come down."

"Yeah, yeah, I'd like to. Lemme get Lindsay settled in for the night. She just got in and she's pretty beat. Went to take Coach Nelson's wife some flowers."

"Aw, that was nice. From the lab?"

"Just her and Stella, I think. Anyway, I'm gonna tuck in li'l mama here, and then I'm on my way."

"You do that, Daddy-o."

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Flack was glad of the company, and that it was only Danny and Mac, who knew how not to get into a guy's head. He would have hated being at the center of a lot of fuss, but he was relieved at not having to go straight home alone, as he assumed he would be.

It was funny, he thought, here he was spending what used to be a typical bachelor evening, taking in a Ranger game with a couple of buddies and a beer, and all he wanted to do was find Jess and make sure everything was okay. It was nearing ten o'clock, and she still hadn't called. It didn't look like he'd be home by ten thirty, and he wondered if he should call and let her know, or if she was already fed up with his messages.

Mac left, and he and Danny ordered another beer each. He watched Danny get comfortable, and groaned inwardly, knowing there was a grilling in store.

"Your girl is _sharp_, man. I wish you coulda seen her today. She was on fire."

"Messer, don't even." he growled. "I'm not in the mood."

"No, but just listen. She slides over the hood of a _moving car_ to take down this wrestling-team kid, lands on his back and ropes him like a li'l baby calf at a rodeo. Then all day, it was like she had this whole crusader thing going on. Like nothing in the world mattered but finding the one shred of evidence that would clear you. We've all got your back, and you know I'd go all-out for you, but Jess? It was like something bigger than her was holdin' her up all day. Whatever is going on with you two, it's...it's something to see. You gotta know people have noticed it."

He watched Danny as he spoke, his eyes and his hands. He'd wanted to tell Danny about Jess for a long time, and he was well aware that Danny had his suspicions, but it hadn't seemed right. They been so careful at work, and besides, there was something about what he and Jess had found that he didn't feel like sharing. But it seemed like it was common knowledge that they were together, which, despite IA's bitchiness, was probably not a bad way to go. It had to come out sometime.

"Yeah," he said finally. "She's something, all right."

"So how long...?"

"Hard to say. A while now. It sort of snuck up on us. I mean, we hit it off so well at first, and we got to be friends. And we're a good team. You don't want to fuck around with that, you know? Especially not in this job. But suddenly there we were, on the same page, and we had to decide...only we didn't really decide. It just all fell into place. Today was rough, though. Still is. I don't know where she is. Haven't heard from her since she talked with IA."

"Maybe she crashed early. She was running on high-octane all day."

Flack wondered why he hadn't thought of that. Plus, he remembered, she had a paper due soon for school. Had he gotten so rattled he'd completely lost his sense of her?

"Yeah," he said, "Maybe."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck, man. Really," said Danny, in a tone Flack had never heard before. Whether it was impending fatherhood, or the past few months of Lindsay's increasingly maternal influence, The Mess was actually growing up.

"Thanks, Danno. You, too. I mean, I've said it before, but - it's pretty amazing to watch you and Lindsay these days."

"Yeah...a lot to learn, in not a lot of time."

"You'll figure it out. Our parents did, and they couldn't just Google "Teething" or "Colic"."

"Or any number of things I don't even wanna talk about..." Danny raised his eyebrows and blew out a breath. "I gotta say, Lindsay is so much tougher than me, I can't even tell you. I'd be running around screamin' my head off if I had all that comin' to me."

"I'm sure you'll be doing plenty of that anyway."

"No doubt."

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Ten thirty came. Flack decided to try one last time to reach Jess. If she didn't answer or call back, he'd leave it in her hands.

"J, I'm worried." he texted. "Let me know you're OK and I'll leave you alone."

He sighed, pocketed his phone under Danny's knowing smirk, and sat back to watch the slow-mo replays on the giant plasma screen on the back wall.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed.

"Can you come over?" asked a soft voice. "I just...I really..."

"I'm on my way," he said, already standing. "Hold on. I'm coming."

"Callout?" Danny asked.

"Jess needs me. Sorry, man."

"No, no. Go. I should, too, anyway. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

Things really had changed, he thought, striding towards the street to find a cab. Not so long ago, the act of leaving a beer unfinished to run to a girlfriend would have been met with ribald comments at the very least - all the more so after a day like he'd had, when squad-room bonhomie was generally employed in place of understanding kindness. But not, it seemed, anymore. Maybe they'd both grown up a little. Or maybe they'd each found a reason to.

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"Jess? Jessie?"

"In here."

The apartment was dark, and her voice was quiet and tear-shaken. He flicked on the hall light and headed towards the living room. She sat on the couch, still in her work clothes, her chin resting on her knees and her arms wrapped around them.

"Babe, what happened? I was worried - " he sat down next to her, and pulled her into his arms. She leaned into him and for the first time, he felt her silent wracking sobs. All he could do was wait, and hold her close.

"Sorry...I'm sorry - "

"What's going on, Jess?" he pushed her hair off her face, and something in his gut wrenched at the sight of her. "You were off radar all afternoon, all tonight...everything went to hell after the Fleming kid died, and then you - I thought you were pissed at me."

"I _was_." she brushed tears away impatiently. "Only for a while. It's a hell of a lot harder for a woman my age to stay out the gossip mill, than - "

"I know, really, I do - "

"So at first, yeah, I needed to cool off. Then the case broke wide open, and I wasn't allowed to call you. IA told me not to. Or even talk to you, till this thing was all over. Didn't you wonder why nobody on the squad was talking to you?"

He stared. "I didn't know. I should've thought. I thought they were done with you after you came out of there."

"I thought so, too. I told them everything I knew. Soon as Danny and I came back with Sheridan and had him booked, they called me in again. They wanted me to start all over again, about Fleming, every second we were with him. Even though we had the whole thing in Sheridan's own words. And then they asked about us. They wanted me to tell them everything, when we met, when we got together - Don, they knew about the time I let Sam go. They must've got it out of Martinez; he was the only one who'd have known about that."

"They _what_? That's completely out of line."

They sat separately, facing one another, Flack furious and Jess both grieved and angry all over again.

"Doesn't matter. They can ask what they like. Think how many cases we've worked together. If any one of those defendants decided to appeal, they might cite collusion or conflict. Fuck, I was sure they were going to ask about Rikki Sandoval. I can't believe they don't know. But it never came up."

He didn't ask her what she'd told them. He knew she'd have told them the truth, but as little of it as possible.

"So, what now? We haven't done anything against policy." he said, trying for a normal voice.

"No, we haven't. But they sure as hell weren't happy about it. One of them even asked if I'd leave Homicide. I told them that was a matter for Sythe, and if he had no problem with our work, neither should they."

"I'd have said the same, only not so nice."

"We can't work cases together, anymore," she said. "Separate assignments. That was the gist of it. You know what their reasoning was? Get this: spousal immunity from testifying. If one of us ever _does_, you know, cause the death of someone on our watch."

The full implications sunk in. He got to his feet and started pacing the length of the living room. "That's such bull. Everyone knows married cops don't work together, but this...that's not covering the department's ass, that's just doling out a bit of punishment 'cause _we_ didn't kiss ass in there. And there's no way they should've been on at you about it. Why the hell didn't they call me back, if they wanted to rough someone up over it?"

"Because after the day you'd had, you'd have handed them your badge, don't you get it? They went for me because they knew I'd talk you down. There's nothing in writing. As far as they're concerned, the conversation never happened, but if Sythe assigns us to cases together, they'll know about it. It was like they knew every mistake I ever made and they were gonna come at me with it. They were treating me like a fucking dirty cop. I have worked my ass off...and there was no talking back to them. I just had to sit there and take it, and by the time I came out of there, I was such a mess I couldn't even think straight. I don't know what I thought. I thought maybe I should transfer back to GIS. I thought maybe you'd decide I was too much of a headache..."

He stopped pacing and stared. "No. Never. I've had a brutal fuckin' day, but you know what kept me going? Knowing I didn't do anything wrong, and knowing you'd be with me at the end of it. As long as I got those two things, I can get through the worst days of my life. In fact, one out of two makes for a pretty good day. Both at once is a bonus."

"You need to come over here and say that," she said, with a half-sob, half-chuckle.

So he did, and then he wrapped her in his arms again.

"Me too, you know," she said. "Do you know just knowing you're out there in the world gets me through my worst days, even if I can't see you?"

He nodded and kissed the top of her head. "Yeah. I do. Case in point: I oughta be on the phone with Sythe or Sinclair right now, shouting my head off. Instead, I'm sittin' here, thinking that maybe it's not so bad. Sythe must be pissed right off. He's gotta know how IA treated the both of us. He knows we're a good team. I know he's known about us for a long time and never said anything. I'm thinking he'll probably let it slip that he's sore at IA, not us."

"I guess we don't technically have to work on the same cases to help each other out," Jess admitted, "But it makes us conspicuous for no reason. I feel like I'm going to be watched every step, now. And we're the last two cops to want to make trouble for anyone."

"You think this is permanent, with IA? Or if we keep our heads down, it'll blow over eventually?"

"I have no idea. Maybe it's some sort of secret promotional hazing ritual, see how we deal with the heat. Todd Fleming could've turned into a major case. But I do know that at some point I'm going to be moving over to Crim Intel, and it won't matter."

She heard the words as she spoke them, and startled.

"I mean, if we're...That's a long way - "

"Shh. Jess, I wanna be there to see it happen. If I didn't, none of this IA bullshit would mean anything to me."

"Good," she said, and burrowed into his chest. "Me, too."

"_A solás mo chroi,_" he reminded her.

"_Solace de mon coeur._ You are, you know. For real."

They were silent for a time, taking strength from one another. Flack wondered how a day like this might have ended, without Jess in his life, and felt a surge of gratitude.

"So does this mean we're outed?" he asked, at length. "I mean, Danny figured it out, so Lindsay knows, and he said people sort of know in general."

"Not officially, or at least, not until someone asks directly. The only non-horrible thing anyone in IA said to me today was that we were very discreet."

"What gets me is that it's gonna reflect worse on IA than us. Yeah, they had to investigate, and they went at it with sledgehammers, but the case was done. They had absolutely no reason to go after you."

"That's what they pay them for. To make sure the department stays squeaky clean on paper."

"We could grieve it. My union rep wanted me to, and she didn't even know about the treatment you got."

"Is it a fight worth fighting? Or are you just sore at them for taking it out of both of us?"

"Yeah." He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against her hair. "Or maybe just that they threw dirt on something that should've..."

"Been good news someday." Jess finished. "Don, are we talking about the same thing?"

"Depends on if we're actually talking about it," he hedged.

She looked up and managed a smile. She laid her fingers against his mouth and murmured, "Hold that thought. It's a good thought, but just hold onto it for a while, okay?"

"Mmkay."

"Hey, you?"

"Yes, you?"

"Take me to bed. It's been one hell of a day."

"Yes, ma'am," he said softly.

Disentangling himself, he stood and pulled her to her feet.

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"So me and Montana, we got married yesterday."

To his credit, Flack thought, Danny had nice timing there - after the first coffee of the day, but before he got dug into the days' work. And there was no need to confirm: Danny was bouncing on his feet like Tigger, holding his beringed left hand up with a grin plastered across his face.

"Oh, man," Flack chuckled, shaking his head. He got up from behind his desk and clasped him in a quick, hard hug. "About damn time. Congratulations. Tell me."

"Aw, we just down to City Hall. Mac and Stella stood up for us. Kind of sprang it on her. But she said yes, so..."

"So she's stuck with you now, huh?"

"Guess so."

"Oy, what's with the bromancin' over there?" yelled Carmody, from across the bullpen.

Flack pointed at Danny, yelling back, "The Mess got married, can you believe it?"

To accompanying shouts of "Who married _that_ face?" and "Awright, man!", Danny left, smacking hands as he went.

"So undignified," said Stella, appearing beside him. Flack shrugged, and they watched the proceedings like a pair of schoolyard supervisors.

"They're not making a fuss of Lindsay up in the lab?"

"Yeah, but it involved herbal tea and _melomakarona_ in the break room. Much more civilized."

He looked over at her, adoration in his eyes. "You made _melomakarona_?"

"It's how I show my love," she sighed, and she flipped him a glance that said _sad, but true_. "I saved some for you and Angell, don't worry."

"Eh?"

"Oh, come on. I'm not gonna bust you or anything. Time you lived a little, Flack. Besides..."

"Besides what?"

"She said something about you not going to be thrilled about our Cagney and Lacey thing with the Greek coin decoys. She was being awfully careful, talking about you. Too careful."

"Mm," he replied.

"So, I didn't mean to drag _both_ of you in, that's all."

"This a peace offering, Bonasera?"

She pulled her spine straight and looked him in the eyes. "Not for the sting. I'm close to pulling down a whole orchestrated conspiracy, and I'm not backing down. But for talking Angell into getting involved in something she felt awkward talking to you about - yeah, for that, I am sorry, as a friend. Even if it was her decision."

"Don't worry 'bout it," he said, bumping his shoulder against hers.

"Really?"

"Really."

Stella squeezed his arm with a grateful look, and headed across the room in search of Detective Maka, who was confined to her desk after yet another duty event recovery. Flack watched her, with a crease in his forehead and the beginnings of a headache at the back of his skull.

_What sting?_ he wondered.

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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

"_A solás mo chroi._"  
\- Safe-place of my heart

"_Solace de mon coeur. J'ai cru que j'aurais peur si je suis tombé si profondément amoureux, de la perte de moi-même. Mais je n'ai pas peur. Je suis plus vraiment moi-même que j'étais jamais..._"  
\- Safe-place of my heart. I always thought I'd be afraid if I fell in love so deeply, of losing myself. But I'm not afraid. I'm more myself than I've ever been."

"_Mon amant, je pense que tu me veux d'encore..._"  
\- My love, I think you want me all over again...

"_O Crísto, na stad...Ta tu go h-aileann._"  
\- Oh, Christ, don't stop...you're so beautiful.

"_melomakarona_"  
\- Slightly spicy Greek finger cakes, soaked in an orange-honey syrup, with nuts sprinkled on top.


	5. Event Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gravity is a force of nature that's awfully hard to stop. So, as it turns out, are the ties that bind.

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_Count all the wounds that brought you here,  
Lay your blessings end to end.  
Rid yourself of all regrets  
Because here is where it all begins..._

\- Cowboy Junkies, "I'm So Open"

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Don..._Donnie_, wake up. It's okay. I'm here. Wake up."

Panting, his heart racing, he did. He recognized, somewhat grimly, that Jess didn't have her arms around him. They'd learned the hard way that she shouldn't restrain him in the grip of a nightmare. She called his name instead, rubbed his back or his shoulders, anything to bring him out of it without making him feel trapped.

"_God..._" he breathed, taking the hand that now slid around his ribs. He rolled over and, embarassed, buried his burning face in her throat. Once awake, she held him tightly.

"It's been a while," she said softly. He nodded, trying to calm his pulse. Sometimes it was easy to identify the triggers that led to his nightmares - explosion scenes, victims that were bound up or buried while still alive. Sometimes they were a product of accumulated stresses. Tonight there was no question.

"Never saw anything like I did today." he said, and felt a shudder of revulsion pass though him. "Not like that."

Flack had been shocked, but not overwhelmed - so he thought - stepping into the charnel-house of Marty Pino's drug lab. Pulped human organs splashed over kitchen appliances and lab equipment. Something about the bland, everyday tools and the school-science-room setup made the whole look even more depraved: a child running amok in his own mind. Two hospital gurneys were covered in gore, with bloodstained restraints the purpose of which he didn't want to think about. He couldn't reconcile the abbatoir in front of him with the boyish, eager-to-please rising star he remembered from the ME's office. It was the work of a creature whose humanity had been burned away by poison and panic, until even his methodical processing became helter-skelter and violent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen Mac, his back turned, quickly make the sign of the cross. That should have been a warning. If Mac figured he was going to need extra help, Flack should have taken the hint. As per policy for officers working unusually violent scenes, he'd been offered Victims Services, which he'd declined. But he could have talked to Jess. He could have called up his old high school friend Tom, now known as Father Grady, and tried to talk the thing through before letting his mind run riot in his sleep. But he couldn't. There was no way anyone else should know about the scene if they didn't need to. It was rough enough for everyone to deal with Marty himself, in his present state.

"I know it was bad," Jess murmured into his hair, rubbing his back in slow circles. "Nobody wants to think of Marty as a lost cause."

"He is." Flack said quietly. He pulled back, and propped himself on one elbow to look at her. The neon and sodium light from the street below came through the rain streaming down the windows, like nature in sympathy in some old black and white movie. Through this strange filter, Jess's eyes were wide awake and worried. "There's not much anyone can do for him now," he said reluctantly. "He'll be lucky if he doesn't end up New York's third man on death row, but I doubt he'll last that long. He wants to die, Jess. I thought about calling Grady...he'd go and talk to Marty, if I asked. I just wish I'd known. He hid everything so well, right up until Sid found out about the paperwork."

"Is that what's getting to you? Wondering what you might have done? Even Sid didn't know."

He shook his head. "I don't even want to tell you. No, that's not right. I don't want you to have to know. I don't want to put things like that in your head."

"I know what he did. I heard about his setup."

"But I saw it. I - " he swallowed hard, and had to breathe deeply. "I smelled it. Even Mac was...he's seen the worst of what people do to each other, and he was having a hell of a time with it."

She nodded. The case was bad enough that it had been marked Invisible, which meant that the server would only admit that the file even existed if one of the key investigating officers was logged in and called it up by number. "If you don't want to talk about it, what about writing it down?"

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe, yeah. I need to write my full report tomorrrow, anyway. I only managed to get the synopsis done."

"You know what worries me sometimes?" she began. "We've opened each other up. We know we can deal with damn near anything - but we've started worrying how it'll affect each other. Hard to stay detached from a scene when you're trying to protect someone you love from the same stuff."

He sighed. "I've thought about that. I know what you're capable of out there. I just wish I could save you from the worst of it."

"But you can't," she told him softly. "And I can't, either. It's our job to go into those places. It's who we are."

"I know. It was easier when we worked cases together. I never worried about you then."

"Yeah." She took a breath. "Hey Don? You remember we talked about never keeping back the truth? Even if it wasn't pretty?"

"Mm hmm."

There was a small silence. "Mm, it's nothing. Just that I get it if there's times you don't think you should. Some things I don't need to know - but I'm always here if you do want to talk."

"And me," he told her, "Anything at all, you can tell me."

She smiled, her brow clearing, and touched his face.

"You gonna go back to sleep?" she asked.

"I'm gonna get up for a bit. I'll be okay." He kissed her and slid his legs out of bed, taking one more deep breath before getting up. He pulled on his sweats and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

So he didn't see her staring into the darkness for long minutes, before she sighed, rolled over, and slept.

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"I don't care," Sythe snapped into the phone, "Angell's court-certified to take interviews in French. She goes. I'm sending Alvarez, Chakravarti and Sigurdson too; you got a problem with _them_? I didn't think so. And while I have you on the line, I might add that my guys are supposed to be busting crooks and protecting people - not being interpreters. Yes, but you realize you're paying them four times as much per hour as a contract translator would cost, don't you? So where's the logic in that? Yeah, you do that, please, and get 'em to call me."

He slammed the handset down - there were still a few satisfying advantages to old-fashioned telephones - and gave Jess a thin smile. "Reprieve," he said. "of a sort. I'm putting you and Flack back together. You heard about his DB on the train this morning? Better get down there. Few French speakers on the carriage, and no translators available until after lunch."

"Yes sir, I'm on it. You know we have those handheld multi-language deals now?"

"Yeah, but the technology is too new. The output isn't admissable as court testimony. We still have to have the recordings translated by hand. Still, I'd grab one anyway and take it with."

Jess turned, and paused at the door. "Sir, you didn't know, did you - that I'm part Métis? That's not why you're assigning me, is it?"

He looked up. "Are you? No, I didn't know."

"My grandmother was. I just didn't know - "

"If I picked you for the optics, because our vic's Native American? No. Just your language skills."

She nodded and made to leave. "I'll check in after the interviews." Exiting the office, she grinned at Sythe's parting shot:

"But if you think it'll _help_ with the optics..."

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"Be right with you," Jess said, gesturing towards the coffee stand at the side of the bullpen. Don nodded, and kept Finn Wexford, still in cuffs, marching towards the bank of interrogation rooms.

"C'n I grab a shower at least, mate?" Wexford asked, "We was goin' hard at it all mornin'."

"No." said Don. "Sit and stink up the whole damn place, I don't care."

"I told you, I never did nothin' to that Chief."

"Double negatives, gotta love 'em." Don's voice carried back from the corridor. "We've gotten convictions on less, _mate_."

Jess shook her head and reached for the decaf.

Stella appeared beside her, with a sheaf of lab reports in hand to distribute among various desks. She could have sent them with a runner, but Jess knew she liked to stay connected with her non-laboratory colleagues, and to be on hand to talk them through the hieroglyphics of forensic results. Pages of percentage tables, and phrases like "probably consistent" didn't do much for police blood pressure.

"Poor boy," Stella said blithley. "Flack cannot stand Irish who give the Irish a bad rep."

"Yeah, I'm gonna sit in there with them," Jess replied, with a knowing eyebrow. And as long as they were partnered up again, she was going to enjoy every minute of it, and prove to all and sundry what a damn good team they were. "Just grabbing us some coffee. Kid's lawyering up, so Flack's chilling out with him for a few minutes. Always interesting what people will say when they know their lawyer's on the way."

"And Flack's a wizard with the idle chat." Stella added, filling a paper cup from the water-cooler.

"Yup. I wish you could've heard them in the car. Flack got him blarneying on about his life back in Ireland, how hard it was, as if it excused everything. He admitted to a bunch of petty offences here in New York, and Flack acted like he hadn't even heard. You better believe _that's_ gonna come up again. Then he asked him if he'd ever treat an Irish clan chief like he treated Chief Delaware. The kid shut right up and asked for a lawyer - which is what Flack wanted all along. We don't think he killed the Chief. But we do want him back in the system for a while. Flack's gonna lean on Legal Aid to swing some community service for a guilty plea on the knucklehead stuff. His little guys at the Y are about to get an assistant coach for a while."

"Nice." Stella nodded, but her expression turned cloudy. "I can't help thinking, though - the terrible irony is how quietly Chief Delaware died. Imagine the headlines if a Native American chief died in full view of the public, on a crowded commuter train, and _nobody noticed_. If he hadn't been shot, how long would it have taken for someone to check on him? How many would have assumed he passed out on the train?"

"At least this one'll get some media attention," Jess agreed, stirring her coffee. "Seems the only cases we get enough time and funding to investigate properly are the ones with some rich white kid at the heart of it."

"Sad but true. Their families and friends are the ones holding most of the city purse-strings. Or at least the airwaves."

"Bloomberg, Hearst, Dunbrook..." Jess rattled off. "Devon Maxford's people."

Stella went on as if she hadn't heard. "You heard how the shooting happened? Chinese papa found his only daughter in bed with a Cameroonian fella. Went for the gun. Seems he'd have been happy enough with a black son-in-law if only they'd been married. Or that's what the interpreter kept repeating. Something doesn't add up. So love is finally colour-blind, but family values are carved in stone?"

"At least they weren't carved in a headstone."

It was curious to note that Stella, like Don, was taking cases much more personally than in the days before Marty. Granted, barely human skinheads like Elgers would turn anyone's stomach. But Stella's change in reaction seemed to be in deflecting the personal impact outwards into philosophical rants, and not speaking of her own feelings at all anymore. Even when Jess asked her about the dead-end Diakos project, Stella said only that it was over, that she was grateful to Jess, and and promised again to cover for her if it ever came to light.

She hoped Stella wasn't trying to toughen up too much on the outside, to the detriment of her fiery Greco-Roman heart. Stella and Mac usually debriefed and unloaded on each other, keeping one another balanced, and if that balance had been disrupted, it did not bode well for either of them. Far from being policy-bound automatons, cops were very human - the good ones, at least - and the kindly department psychologists couldn't completely take the place of a good friend and colleague to talk to.

_Or to come home to. _

She picked up the coffees, and gave Stella a thoughtful smile as they parted.

Just sometimes, she really did get the best inspirations.

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..."_Passez à mon apartment ce soir, et je vous montrerai le sens véritable de relations internationales..._" she'd said, with as bright a grin as he'd ever seen on her.

He _passé'd_ to her apartment as _toute de_ damn _suite_ as he could.

She was waiting for him in her bedroom, lounging on her stomach in the nude, long pale peach limbs and chestnut hair against the warm colours of the room. She was reading over a problem from class, a slight crease between her brows, tapping a pencil under her chin.

She looked up and smiled. "Hey, you."

"Hey," he said, dropping his duffel by the door. "Am I interrupting?"

"Nah, I'm multitasking."

"Uh huh." He sat next to her on the edge of the bed, and slid his palm over the curve of her calf. "How many things you got going on?"

"Studying. Thinking about what I'm going to do to you. Wondering when they're going to announce the next Tactical Simulation Exercise for Second Grade candidates. Trying to decide what to get my very girly niece for her birthday. Thinking some more about what I'm going to do to you."

"All that, huh?" His hand rode higher, over the impossibly silky back of her knee. She pretended not to notice, but her eyes went soft and hazy.

"Hey, I have a female brain. We're wired that way."

"Good thing, 'cause I haven't been able to think about much since you left me with that damn message." He leaned over and planted a kiss among the stylized blackwork roses and thorns twisting up a trellis along her spine, in the same Rennie Mackintosh style as the design around her wrist. ("Rapunzel?" he'd asked, in the beginning. "Grace," she'd replied, and then: "Okay, maybe a bit Rapunzel."), and sat back to take off his jacket. He hung it over the rail of her bed, along with his belt, holster and Glock, and bent down to unbuckle the smaller Sig Sauer he wore on his ankle.

"Aw. Did I distract you?"

She dumped her binder on the floor, and rolled over to face him, grinning, winding her legs into half-lotus with total nonchalance. Which was just like Jess. Meeting one's lover in lingerie was all fun and good, and she enjoyed making his eyes pop, but she preferred the air on her skin. She was a minimalist at heart: rarely any jewelry, a bare touch of makeup for workdays, and an unfussy wardrobe chosen for comfort and physical combat if necessary. It was one of the many aspects of her he'd fallen in love with.

He grinned back. "Just a little." he said.

Between the sultry French and the promising light in her eyes, it was a mercy he'd managed to get out of the precinct, all the way to the lab, and back to his car without attracting unwanted attention.

"C'mere."

He shifted closer, and, touch-hungry, rested a hand on her knee as she loosened his tie with deft fingers. She pulled it over his head, hung it over a bed-knob, and began to work on his shirt.

"You're the only younger cop I know who wears cufflinks."

"Holdover from Dad, I guess. He told me always wear a tailored shirt for court, and he was right. Some days they're the only ones clean," he admitted.

"They suit you. Very Cary Grant." She smiled and shook her head at some private inner joke, reached over and dropped the silver links on her night table. He added his wristwatch and badge, and then shrugged out of his shirt, draping it on top of his jacket. She waited patiently. Apparently her plan involved him being naked too, which was fine with him. Once undressed, he followed her gesture and lay on his stomach, resting his forehead on his crossed arms.

"You need anything?" she asked, moving around to straddle his legs. "A blanket, something to drink? There's all sorts of food in the oven. I went back to the Indian market. After all the Holi wars were over."

_Ohhh._ Now he understood her plan. "No, I'm good. Wow."

She leaned forward, smoothed her palms over his back to settle him, and then her strong fingers began seeking out the muscles across his shoulders and down his spine. He sighed and breathed into her touch. She knew how sensitive and responsive he was, under his suits and ties, because she was, too. It was the first discovery they'd made as lovers, to their continued delight. He carried all his stress in his body, just like her, long before it showed up in his eyes and his voice.

Working it all out had never been so much fun.

It was a new experience, having someone in his life who paid attention to the week he'd had, and spent time planning how to make him feel better. It had just been a long, hard-working week, and Jess knew exactly what he needed to recharge.

"Is this what they teach in international relations class? Food and massage?" he murmured gratefully into his forearms.

"I'm sure there's been more than one piece of foreign policy..." she began, and he chuckled. She leaned forward for the bottle of almond oil she'd set on the night-table, and started to work on him in earnest.

He winced pleasurably and sighed. "I'm gonna get you back for this, I promise."

"Shh. _Calmer-toi. Relâcher...prendre des souffles profonds..._."

Under her hands, knots loosened down his spine and limbs. He closed his eyes and felt the stress of the week rolling away, off his shoulders and back. She began to work on the soles of his feet, and time slipped away completely. He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, but aware of a low buzz of arousal spreading through him.

At some point the buzz became a full-on sensual campaign. He couldn't say when her touch turned distinctly erotic, but small caresses and maddeningly brief nibbles over his nape and shoulders began to take over, and then nails trailing over his thighs and ass. He rolled over beneath her, and she got up on her knees to give him room. She leaned in to kiss him, and let him chase the tip of her fleeting tongue back into her mouth, before perching on his thighs.

"_Ca va bien, mon amant_?" she asked, with a wicked smile, trailing her fingertips from his chest down to his stomach. "_C'est mieux? Que veux-tu me faire? Quel est ton fantaisie la plus sauvage? Je le ferai, n'importe quoi pour toi...n'importe quoi à tous. J'ai voulu toujours dire cela. Quelque jour tu me dirai que tu me comprends bien, et je serai dans trop d'ennui..._"

What the heck _was_ it about the French language, anyway? Her voice was wrapping around his cock like silk, and for all he knew, she was reciting a Stats problem.

"I got some good karma left over from a past life or something, Jess?"

He rested his hands loosely on her hips, his thumbs brushing the satiny hollows so she squirmed in pleasure. He took her in at a glance, like a snapshot: her beautiful dark eyes drowsy with arousal, the curl of her lips, the curve of her waist and the rise of her breasts. The last rays of the evening sun, slicing through the drapes, turned her skin to amber and her hair to a flaming auburn mantle over her shoulders. She was like a gilded statue, almost too much to touch.

Except that she was very much flesh and blood and all girl, and she was looking at him with the same expression. It was his turn to squirm. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down.

"Uh-uh. Not done with you in _this_ life yet," she breathed, before kissing him slow and deep and greedy. Her clever fingers drew audible gasps from him. He could feel her skin warming as she moved over him, and he knew the scent of a turned-on Jessica very well. He knew better than to reciprocate when she was in this mood, unless he wanted to be trussed up. Although...she knew damn well that if she took him to that place, it would be her turn next. Was that her plan? He could live with that. Duty cuffs were only for a short mental kick - nobody wanted to come to work with telltale double-rail bruises - but the satin belt of her robe, snugly figure-eighted around his wrists or hers, meant playtime. While the memory brought a swift spike of arousal (_ohh, God, the way the scarlet bands looked, woven against her creamy skin, her arms stretched up and her eyes defiant and alight..._) he wanted his options open.

If he lived that long.

She took a good half hour getting him right where she wanted him. Which was to say, splayed out on her bed, groaning aloud and writhing up into her touch as she licked his riveted nipples warmly and wetly, her fingers buried in the thatch at his groin, gripping the root of his well-tongued cock to prolong his torment. Her fingers strayed over her own body whenever she gave him a moment to catch his breath, and he knew she was getting pretty damn close herself.

"Jesus, Jess..." he rasped, willing his hands not to clutch. Not that she didn't _like_ it when he clutched. A lot. But then she'd win, and...oh, hell, she was gonna do that thing...

Her hand closed around his aching shaft, and she stroked him, her touch tortuously light. He stopped breathing as she tickled just under his sac with the other hand and pressed in, oh_fuck_ right there, and then flicked her tongue over his slit and _moaned_, dammit. It was all he could do not to come hard right there.

"Inhale," she reminded him, reaching up to brush a kiss over his dry lips.

"Difficult," he replied, through gritted teeth.

"_Ceci, c'est pour toi. C'est ce que tu as besoin._" she murmured, against his mouth.

He felt the wetness of her sex on his thigh as she ground against him, and gave up completely. He plunged his fingers into her hair and took her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss, shoving aside his own incipient climax with the need to feel her come apart. The sound that tore from her throat sent him clean out of his head. He rolled with her, moving down her body to find and devour sweet nipples and firm belly, tensed thighs and glistening furrow, clenching slick around his pushing fingers, honey and vanilla under his tongue, driving her higher, faster, till she hit her peak with harsh cries, arching off the sheets. He moved with her before she even came down, parting her thighs and pulling her knee high up along his side. She gasped and met his heavy thrust in the cradle of her hips.

"_Ah!_ God, do it, don't stop..."

"_Jess..._" he growled, feeling her opening against him. _So close. Too close._ He fumbled for the drawer of her night-table. He felt her blunt nails slide down and bite into his back.

"It's okay. _Prends-moi._"

Oh, God.

He did.

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"One of these nights we'll have dinner _before_ sex." Jess yawned, some hours later. She snuggled into his side, fed, lovingly bathed, and exhausted.

"One of these nights you'll go off to class without a quickie," he smirked. "How glad am I you didn't have a lecture tonight."

"I did, actually. You're turning me into a delinquent."

"Detective," he said sternly, "You skipped school to get laid?"

"No, I skipped school because the love of my life needed some TLC."

He pressed a kiss into her hair. "I can maybe admit that. What time you on tomorrow?"

"Not till two o'clock, if nothing comes in," she mumbled, her eyes closing. "Good thing. _Three_ times before bed? Oh, I'm gonna be sore tomorrow..."

"Aw, babe. Whyn't - "

"You kiddin' me?"

He gave a soft laugh. "So...we're okay with just your shots now? No backup?"

"Yup. We're good. Thought you'd like that. You caveman." she kissed his chest. He draped an arm over her hip and tucked her in closer.

"Very, very much. I'll go hunt you a woolly mammoth on a bagel before I go on shift, how's that?"

"With a latté?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow without opening her eyes.

"For you, a double," he promised.

"Mm. You do love me."

"You bet," he said quietly. He stretched out, pleasantly achy himself, and settled himself for sleep. "You bet I do."

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Flack sighed, and for the third time, said to his pacing sister: "Sammy, calm down. It's gonna be all right."

"All right for you! This is the first time I've gone anywhere with booze in what, three months? Four? It's just a _bit_ scary over here."

"'Nobody's sayin' we have to," said Grady, from the couch, leaning forward on his elbows. "We can always stay in, for sure."

Flack, Grady and Samantha were waiting at Flack's apartment for Jess to appear, after which they had reservations at a new Egyptian restaurant. There was no doubt that the evening was a test and a sort of graduation for Sam, to be out in the world, beyond the protected bubble she'd kept within, free from alcohol and her old party-life acquaintances. They hoped that, surrounded by people she trusted, it could be part of a slow return to the sociable, confident Sam that she used to be.

Flack had been making a concerted effort to spend more time with her, lately. With just under a year between them - Irish twins, as the saying went - they'd grown up taking each other for granted, and, not untypically, had grown apart as they aged and their paths diverged. And like many twins and almost-twins, they'd had to find their way back to each other as adults, with their own lives and their own identities, and with the added challenge of Sam's alcoholism clashing with Don's career, as well as being a major family obstacle.

These days, they seemed to be making actual progess, not just telling old stories, or joking around.

Jess had been instrumental in that. Her casual warmth and delight at finding another Flack to connect with was just what Sam needed, when memories and the struggles of the present became too heavy. She met up with Sam after counselling appointments, from time to time, or picked her up from her new bookstore job, and their conversations over tea were held in strict confidence.

"Just girl talk," Jess would grin, daring him to comment. But occasionally, she would come out with things like: "A ponytail, Don? You?"

"Only one summer," he muttered. "I had to cut it all off before school started."

It was clear, though, that their chats were anything but casual, and Flack tried his damndest not to pry - or to show fear in their presence. He could only imagine them after a few beers together, and was grateful to have escaped that fate. They had the combined instincts of sharks in the waters, and Sam knew a great many of his secrets.

Nathan still communicated solely through their mother, Mary, and only occasionally asked after Sam, who he'd written off years before, calling her an embarassment to her face. Being a Flack, Sam refused to speak with him, but would have forgiven him everything, even all the taunting and bullying of her childhood, if he'd only made an effort. Nathan was too horrified at his younger self, and too ambivalent about his family in general, to want to try again.

Donald Sr. still wanted nothing to do with his youngest child, though, and bitterly resented Flack's suggestion that he slow down his own drinking if he wanted to see Sam again. The news that Samantha was doing everything in her power to stay sober and get her feet back under her was greeted with little more than a derisive snort. Mary Flack, on the other hand, asked after Samantha every chance she got, and seemed to understand, with a deep sadness, that Sam wasn't ready to deal with them all. She didn't blame Samantha for that. She just hugged her middle child enough for all of them, and then Jess, too.

For now, though, getting Sam through an ordinary evening out was enough of a challenge.

"No. No, I want to do this." she said. "It's not like I'm gonna be gettin' anything to drink. It's just, seeing other people doin' it..."

"Yeah," said Flack. "But you know none of us will be. And we're not sendin' you home alone, either. You're stayin' here tonight."

"I am?" she asked.

Grady nodded. "Trust me, Sammy, 'tis afterwards that comes the hardest. When you're feelin' good about how the evenin' went, and you're all alone. People around you are going to be havin' a glass or two, and laughin' and carryin' on, and for sure it'll seem like what harm is there in a wee one? 'Tis no crime, after all. And haven't you earned it, after bein' good for so long? And then to be by yourself. That's when the urge comes on the worst. So we've staged a bit of a kidnapping, as it were. For your own good."

Sam stopped pacing the length of the living room, and turned to him, her arms still crossed protectively, but with a wry grin. "You gettin' all priestly on me, Father Tom?"

"Not I," said Grady. "I'm seven years sober. Why do you think our Donnie invited me along in the first place? My great wit and charm?"

"I...didn't know."

"Not many did. You'd be amazed how many priests end up in the drink. It's an easy fall, and people far too willin' to overlook it. They figure we need some sort of relief, and as long as we behave..." he shrugged, "So I'm here partly because I've missed you both, and partly to hold your hand. Not as a priest. Just a friend who's been there."

Whatever Sam was about to say was cut short as a key scraped in the lock of the apartment door. Flack got up to open it, and greeted Jess with a warm kiss. Samantha rolled her eyes and Grady smiled with benign sweetness.

"'Tis a grand thing, that." he said softly.

Sam looked up sharply, but Grady's attention was only on the two police officers in front of him, each letting their guard down for a precious few moments.

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"You did great," Jess assured her. Tucked up on the couch, resplendent in an old Academy shirt, Sam blew a cooling breath over her peppermint tea.

Flack was reminded of innumerable middle-of-the-night meetings in one of their rooms, usually involving scary stories and cookies, in high secrecy and with the lights out. Nathan had even been part of them, when they were all very young.

"It went okay," Sam said. "I gotta say, though, I had a few freakouts there. Thought I was headin' for a full out panic attack a couple times. It's just crazy, how you can know something with your head, but..."

"I know. We'd have hustled you out of there in a second if you needed it."

Sam managed a smile. "At least I managed to eat," she said.

"About time, girl. Few meals like that, you'll be taking on me and Don at the feeding trough."

"Yeah, but I don't spend my days chasin' people all over town," Sam returned. "You guys burn it all off."

"Yes," Jess grinned wickedly. "Yes, we do."

"Aw, _Jessie_!" Sam protested, wrinkling her nose.

Jess giggled. Flack grumbled good-naturedly and exiled himself to the kitchen for a drink, admitting to his private self that if Sam weren't around, he'd be happily indulging in a beer. It had been a more stressful dinner than he'd thought. He knew alcoholism was a physical disease as much as a mental one, but to watch his sister reacting so deeply to the sight and smell of it was a kick in the gut.

"So, you and Grady?" he heard Jess ask, quietly. His ears pricked up. _This should be interesting,_ he thought. He knew Grady's version of events, but he'd never asked Sam.

"High school crush, that's all," Sam explained. "We were just kids. He came to New York in Grade Eight, went to Seminary after Grade Ten. He was Donnie's friend, really."

"And nothing ever happened," Jess intuited.

"Nah. Not really. We sorta talked about it, and some other stuff happened. But we fell out of touch after we all graduated. Wasn't until he and Donnie crossed paths on a case that we all met up again."

_Awfully short explanation, for Sam_, Flack thought. He wandered back with his glass of iced tea. "Now that's a great story. Get this: guy comes in for Confession, and admits to strangling his wife a year earlier. Guy thinks he's getting squared away with God _and_ bragging to the one person who'd never tell on him. Grady asks the guy to come pray with him some more in his office, and slips a note to his secretary to call the cops. I get the call, and the guy literally pissed himself when four of the boys stormed into Grady's office with their guns out. We've had each other's backs other ever since. I'd call him when I was done in with some case or other. He'd call me when he thought he was gonna drink."

"So you _were_ matchmaking," Sammy glared fondly at him, "Inviting him tonight."

"Only in a spiritual sense."

"Well, I'm glad you did. I've missed him. If I knew he'd been through this, too..." Sam shook her head sadly. "All these years. It's so awful to think."

Jess glanced quickly up at Flack, and back to Sam. "What, honey?" she asked.

"That I didn't even remember what it's like to have people around who'd never want to hurt you."

"I'd never hurt you if I could, Sam-I-Am," Don said, with heavy regret. "I'm sorry I ever did. I know I did."

"Musta been at the end of your rope with me."

"Yeah, I was. Never meant I didn't love you to bits, kid."

"I know that now. I do. Just wish...I wish things were better with the others. Mom and Dad and Nathan."

"One thing at a time. You know I'm in your corner, right? Dad's not ready to deal with his own problems yet. He hasn't figured out you're _just like him._ That's the real reason he always got so angry. He couldn't not love you, Sammy. But he couldn't get you help without helping himself, so all he had left was cussin' you out."

"And I cussed him right back," she sighed. "This is gonna take a long time."

"We got all the time there is," he said firmly. "It's already happening."

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He was hovering over his desk, halfway between typing in a search query and dashing out the door, when Stella approached.

"Hey, Flack."

"Hey." he greeted her absently.

"You seen Angell?"

"She's out of town for a few days." Three days, fourteen hours and about thirty minutes, at last count. And his mood hadn't improved much since she'd decided to cash in a couple more vacation days, extending her visit to her two Ottawa-based brethren until the next weekend. He'd noticed that some constables were beginning to avoid looking him in the eye. One of his little guys in the basketball group, rushing in where trained officers feared to tread, had asked him point-blank what was wrong, 'cause he wasn't making jokes.

"Missin' my girlfriend, buddy, that's all," he'd told the kid, "She's visiting her family up in Canada." The kid had nodded, wide-eyed, and word went round the group to be nice to Coach. They all liked Jess.

"Listen," Stella said, "When she gets back, could you tell her I need to talk to her about Kolovos?"

That snapped his wandering attention back to the present. Stella was supposed to be completely off the case, a civilian witness only. Rumor had it she'd even turned in her badge rather than force Mac to issue a reprimand, though that might or might not have been true. He couldn't tell whether she had it on her or not. "Kolovos. The Central Park vic?"

Stella nodded. "Yeah."

He noted the anxiety in her voice and her hands, and eyed her with something akin to suspicion. "C'mere for a second."

She folllowed him to a quiet alcove near the back hallway.

"Look, Jess didn't tell me any of the details. Just that the two of you were workin' on something, but if this involves her, I'd like for you tell me what it is. 'Cause I care about her."

No point in trying to pretend he was just looking out for a junior detective on the squad. Everyone knew he and Jess were together now. If it was a legit sting, Stella didn't have to tell him anything - but he'd prefer to hear the details from her, rather than having to snoop behind Jess' back on the online records system. And if there weren't any official details to be had, if the two had gone rogue, he _really_ didn't want to find out that way.

"I know you do," she replied. "This isn't about Jess. She's fine. She was just helping me out, Flack."

"How?" he pressed.

"It started a couple of months ago, when I was trying to find out who attacked me. I followed a trail and uncovered a smuggling ring. Sebastian Diakos and George Kolovos were part of it. They were smuggling Greek artifacts, and selling them in the US."

"There anything else I should know?" he asked, knowing it was futile. "Anything I should _do_?" he tried next.

"Tell Jess that Kolovos is dead, and she should step back." Lifting her chin a few degrees higher in response to his look, she looked him straight in the eyes and told him, "I'm gonna get to the bottom of this."

It was a heavily sanitized account Stella had given him, but he'd cracked cases on less. He hated the thought of putting Jess on the hotseat, but he needed more to go on. Jess knew more than she'd told him, which was fine, especially for a policing operation, but he was sure she had no idea how deep the operation had gone. He trusted Stella, but her word that Jess was fine didn't satisfy him. Stella had assumed her own safety, with potentially fatal results - twice.

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"Hey, you! Missing me yet?"

"Why, you go somewhere?"

She let out a wounded "Oh!" that dissolved into a giggle.

"Miss you like crazy, babe. How's the trip going?"

"So far so good. Jerome's still a sore loser at Scrabble, and Dom's still trying to get me to move back and join the Mounties. The usual."

"You're leavin' me to join the Mounties?"

"I do look good in red," she purred. "So...how's Lucy? And Lindsay? I got a couple of photos from her, but only of the baby."

"I've got a great one of all three of them. I'll send it your way. Lucy's doin' great. Very loud. Very pink. Lindsay says thanks for the stuffed moose. It's been drooled on already."

"That's what it's for."

"Danny's jealous. He's never seen a moose."

"I'll get him one, too. What about you? You keeping the city safe for me?"

"I'm tryin'. And on that note, before we get sidetracked - I got somethin' to pass on from Stella."

"Yeah? What's she up to?"

"She said to tell you," he began slowly, "That Kolovos is dead, and you should step back."

Jess was silent for a couple of breaths. "Don..."

"Jess, this guy Kolovos was stabbed last night, and he had Stella's home address on him. You know she never gives that out. She's damn lucky someone killed him before he killed her. Kolovos wasn't so lucky. She's okay, she says you're okay, but _I'm_ not okay. I get that it was some hunch Stella was working off the books, and you wanted to help out, but - "

"Don - "

"You know, I'm stuck here. I don't know if I need to be the cop, or the guy who'd do anything for you, and honestly, they're both scared for you. And pretty pissed, if you want the truth."

"I know. Don, listen to me. Please, just listen. There was no way we could've known it would ever go this far. If I thought for a second anyone would actually...it was a setup at first, that's all. To get to the truth so we could get enough evidence to open a case. And then it was just to get Kolovos' partner sent back to Greece to stand trial. That's where we might've gone too far. Right and wrong is sometimes just a matter of timing..."

"Jess, quit playin' around. This is serious. Stella got her wrist smacked, I could tell. She didn't say why, only that somethin' happened in Greece, to do with these forgeries and this smuggling ring. Then she comes and tells me to tell you to step back. I can't be - "

"I don't need you to look out for me." she snapped.

_One week with the big brothers..._ he thought irritably. "That's not what I meant, and you know it, so will you please tell me what we're dealin' with, here? How do I know someone isn't walkin' around with your address in his pocket? I know Stella would've been too easy for them to spot, so I gotta think that you were the one making contact. You met with him? Kolovos? And he was _back in New York._ I don't think I'm over-reacting, here."

There was silence on the line for a moment. "I wanted to explain it all in person." Jess said, sounding wobbly. "It would be better. But I don't want us ending a call like this."

He rubbed his forehead, and tried to reel himself in. She was probably right, but they were in it now, and it couldn't wait. "I told you when I went over the line for Danny," he reminded her. "It seemed like the right thing to do, and it ended up with a lady wavin' a gun around. And I get the feeling that's what happened with you. Maybe just a little, at first? Something that seemed like a good idea, helping Stella after that case that got her beat up? 'Cause Mac didn't want her too close to it?"

"At first," she admitted.

"Just tell me," he said quietly. "It's in the past now. It's done. You know I'd always give you the benefit of the doubt."

She took a breath. "I tried to tell you before," she said. "After Marty was caught. I just didn't have the heart...It's not that I was keeping anything from you. I didn't hear anything after that, so I figured it was over. I thought there'd be a better time to tell you, or that Stella should be the one."

"Well, she's told Mac everything, and I'm sure she watered down your side, but I'd rather hear it from you."

So she walked him through the story, beginning with the strange coin found within a cheap ceramic pendant that a man was killed for, and ending with the last time she saw Diakos - dead in his apartment with coins on his eyes. She didn't know what happened after Diakos' death and Kolovos' unplanned trip to Greece, but she'd been monitoring the wires for any hint of similar smuggling or selling activity, with nothing of interest turning up. If Stella knew anything more, it would be up to her to say to. She ended by suggesting that Stella might be glad of a chance to unburden herself of the whole thing, somewhere off-duty and off the record.

"Don, please, say something," she begged, at his silence following her tale.

"I think," he began, "I think I'm damned glad I'm not Sythe. Because except for the unlawful confinement thing - and I'm willin' to bet he was set free as soon as he was on board the freighter - it could've been a by-the-book operation. _Except_ for the fact that Stella was officially ordered to drop it, and she didn't. And she got you involved, without security controls in place. That's what I'm most pissed about. She should've known better. She _does_ know better. In fact, you know what's weirdest about this whole thing? _Mac._ He's always going on about the integrity of his team, and Stella's like his own right hand. Anyone else would've been hauled into a disciplinary hearing. But he chased her to _Greece_, he isn't saying what went on there, and she's back in the office like nothing happened."

"He loves her," Jess replied, matter-of-factly. "Oh, I don't mean like that, even though he's more than halfway in love with her. No, I mean, she's his family. And it was the first time Stella ever felt what family ties can do to a person. That friend of hers, Papakota - he's been like an uncle to her, and he taught her to think of Greece as her home. She's been heading for some sort of blowout, Don, since this whole thing started, and then Marty just set a fire under her. She's been like a one-woman powerhouse, trying to make everything right in the world for the people she cares about. She's not used to the crazy shit that family can make you do."

"That does make sense," Flack had to agree. "Listen, Sythe hasn't called you, e-mailed you?"

"Only to confirm my return date."

"Then he probably doesn't even know. Mac's covered you, too."

"You sound confused."

"I am. Mac, me, Danny - we were, like, the tough bastards you didn't wanna mess with, and now look at us. All because of the women in our lives."

"You'll always be my tough bastard."

"Just get yourself home, woman," he growled. She laughed, and he closed his eyes in relief.

"You're not mad still?" she asked.

"A little. I was in the dark, Jess. If anything had happened to you, I wouldn't have known. I wouldn't have known what you needed, where you were...don't do that to me, all right? I know how tough you are. I'm not one of your brothers. You don't have to prove anything to me. But we gotta be a team."

"We are. I promise. I'm sorry. I know, I still have a big thing about thinking every man in my life wants to save me from myself. But honestly, I thought it was over, or I'd have told you everything sooner. Shit, I know I'm gonna be in it up to my ass when I get back to work. How I'm gonna look Mac in the eye I can't even..."

"Follow his lead, I guess. He has a way of pretending things never happened, sometimes."

"I guess."

"You know somethin'?"

"What?"

"The whole thing sounds really smokin' hot."

"Oh, it was. I had this whole mysterious-spy thing going on. And Stella was like my spymaster. Spymistress?"

"Damn."

"But I never spoke French, _mon vieux. Ca, c'est le notre._ Barring any other French-speaking witnesses."

"Jessie?"

"Mm?"

"When you get home - what d'you say we get back to that conversation we put off. The one you told me to hold onto for a while. About what the future looks like."

"That sounds like a fine idea," she agreed. He heard the smile in her voice. "And we should try to get the parents to meet sometime. Mine have been asking to meet yours for months."

_...And meeting Jess and her folks is probably the one event that all the Flacks would turn up in one place for, and be civil to each other_, he thought. _The crazy shit we do for family indeed..._

"That Egyptian place seems to be lucky," he suggested. "Maybe it can lift family curses? I know a couple things that might even make my brother show his face for dinner."

"Hey, I'm game."

"You usually are."

"Hey, Don?"

"I'm here."

"I think...I think this might just be a matter of timing, too."

"Yeah..."

As he settled down to sleep that night, he realized that in among the delirious shouts of excitement, he was aware of a very calm sense of the path his life would take, rolling out in front of him like a long country highway in summer.

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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

"_Te calmer. Relâcher-toi et prendre des souffles profonds..._"  
\- Settle down. Just relax, take deep breaths.

_"Ca va bien, mon amant?...C'est mieux? Que veux-tu me faire? Qu'est-ce que ton fantaisie la plus sauvage? Je le ferai, pour toi, n'importe quoi...n'importe quoi à tous...Je toujours ai voulu dire cela. Quelque jour tu me dirai que tu me comprends bien, et je serai dans trop d'ennui..."_  
\- How's that, my love? Better? What do you want me to do? What's your wildest fantasy? I'll do it, anything for you...anything at all. I always wanted to say that. One day you're going to tell me you understand me perfectly well, and I'm going to be in so much trouble...

"_Ceci, c'est pour toi. C'est ce que tu as besoin._"  
\- This is for you. This is what you need.

"_Prends-moi._"  
\- Take me.

"_...mon vieux. Ca, c'est le notre._ "  
\- old friend. (literally, my old.) That's our thing.

* * *

** _Reader, to you is given a choice: to follow canon, or to catch a passing tesseract to a parallel universe.  
The next update will be a Choose Your Own Adventure double-entry. Death carries immense grace and personal growth in its wake - but so does true partnership._ **

** _Until then, I remain, as ever,_ **

** _Fixomnia Scribble_ **


	6. Collateral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know what happens in this one. But life goes on regardless...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanky alert. Many tissues gave their lives in the pursuit of this chapter.
> 
> It's been a long time coming, but then, I thought I was nearly finished this whole thing - I wasn't expecting to have to watch a whole parallel reality manifest itself into being! Let it not be said that writing is a one-sided monologue. I hear and deliver.
> 
> So here, then, is the in-canon version, give or take a couple of officers who never had any screen-time. Both it and the Wrinkle in Time Remix can stand on their own, but a lot more will make sense if both are read. (Wouldn't it be nice to be able to perceive some of the alternate realities that we don't follow, and see how many cosmic in-jokes we've missed? But then maybe that's where storytelling comes in...)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. Let it all out. And then go and read the Remix version (listed as Chapter Seven, on this site).

\---------------------------------  
Chapter Six  
Collateral  
\---------------------------------

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_Perhaps this final act was meant_  
To clinch a lifetime's argument  
That nothing comes from violence, and nothing ever could,  
For all those born beneath an angry star,  
Lest we forget how fragile we are...

\- Sting, "Fragile"

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"Air Canada Flight 752, Laval Airport to LaGuardia, now offloading, Terminal M. Air Canada Flight 752, Terminal M."

Flack stopped pretending to watch the CNN Headline News on the wall-mounted plasma screen over the coffee area. He pitched his paper cup into the bin with a perfect rebound shot, and headed over to the Arrivals pass-door. It would take Jess a little time to make her way through Customs, but between her dual citizenship and security clearance level, she should be sailing through the door in a matter of minutes.

Not that Flack, detective of grim purpose and browbeater of whining murderers and rapists, had spent a lot of time lately imagining his girlfriend safely within reach. Not at all. Not when she'd been away for eight interminable days, driving him mad with sultry phone calls after he should have been asleep. Especially not now that he knew about Kolovos, and Jess' role in the whole Greek drama.

Thanks to the usual osmotic information system in the bullpen, everyone seemed to be aware that this was the first time he and Jess had been apart since they'd gotten together. He'd expected to endure a week of endless ribbing. The level of sympathy he encountered was a new thing. He had no idea that he and Jess had become some sort of departmental romantic ideal, two cops who were actually making it work, on the job and at home. That kind of attention gave him the creeps, and made him even touchier.

He had a couple of apologies to make at the office, he thought, after a week of randomly grouching and snapping at people. The worst of it was that nobody even seemed put out. He'd nearly snatched a parole recommendation from Carmody's hands, saying that it was four hours late, and Carmody had just nodded, said he knew it, and pointed out a couple of paragraphs he needed to review. He came close to yelling at Ruth, High Priestess of the Records Room, and only the thought of the hell he'd be in for stopped him. Ruth had only patted his arm and asked after his parents.

He'd put in long hours all week, and had been a total bastard in the interview room. Sythe had mentioned it.

"Like having the old Flack back," he'd said. There was an inflection in his voice, though, that turned a typical cop jibe into a rather laden observation from an older man to a younger: _You've changed. Hope you're taking the time to appreciate it._

His mood had improved somewhat after he'd been whisked out to dinner by Mac and Stella. They had filled in all of the blanks as to Stella and Jess' Greek Oddyssey. Mac had outlined the steps he'd taken with IA, to write the whole thing off as a semi-legitimate sting operation for which Stella might plausibly have thought she'd had his support in re-activating, after all. God knows how much career capital Mac had expended in so doing, but if Flack was reading the signs right - Mac was more than a little proud of Stella for the ultimate outcome, even if they had a fair deal of trust to rebuild between them.

At any rate, both Stella and Jess had escaped censure, even if they would both need to stay well under the departmental radar for a long time to come. Better if they weren't even seen lunching in the Mess together, but they were as thick as thieves, and they'd just spend time together in the batting cages and on the track instead.

Danny and Lindsay had made a point of having him and Sam for dinner. "We're a mess, but we've got all this food from people," Lindsay explained, "So you might as well come over while the eating's good and Lucy's sleeping most of the time. Elina made enough calzone for an entire Super Bowl weekend." So they'd turned up that evening, met by Danny at the apartment door with Lucy in her Baby Bjorn. Danny had raccoon eyes and his hair had taken on a life of its own. Flack could only laugh at them both, awkwardly stroking the baby's wispy curls. Lucy had Messer hair already.

They were just coming out of hibernation (and shock, admitted Lindsay), having had nobody over but Elina Messer, and briefly, Mac and Stella, in the short time they'd been home. They were glad to be sociable again, bantering back and forth like old times, taking photos of Flack holding Lucy, and Sam nibbling her fingers. He'd felt like a hulking brute, sitting with the week-old flyweight in his arms. The only time he'd ever held anyone so small was during an emergency highway-side delivery during his days on the patrol beat. It was incredible how much presence Lucy had. Within five minutes, she'd taught him exactly how she wanted to be held, and as soon as he'd gotten the hang of it, she'd fallen into a deep slumber on his chest. He was afraid to move a muscle in case he disturbed her.

Danny was unsympathetic. "Hey, I got twenty-one years of that comin' to me," he said.

Flack didn't have many female friends with babies, but he knew that for Lindsay to feel comfortable having them over so soon after Lucy's birth was a serious compliment. And, knowing her devious mind, it was probably one of her hands-on demonstrations of proof: that deep down, Flack really loved taking care of people, and that she trusted and liked the new-improved, sober Samantha. And, incidentally, that such things as wives and babies weren't all that scary.

Flack thought hard about all of this, while watching the pass-doors between Customs and the Arrivals lounge.

The flight attendants emerged en masse, followed by a few families with little kids in strollers. An Indian couple came next, with two little boys, and mother in an embroidered blue salwar kameez. A pair of scruffy teenage backpackers followed, and then Jess appeared a moment later, looking like a cross between an adventurer and a travelling teenager herself, with her backpack and hiking boots, and her hair braided down her back.

Her whole face brightened as she spotted him. It was amazing how quickly he felt like a different man than he'd been all week.

They had a lot of talking to do, and soon, but for the moment, it didn't matter. The future seemed to be falling into place, and as long as they stayed honest and open with each other, they'd keep steering straight.

"Hey, you," he said, gathering her up. He knew he was wearing a goofy grin, and he really didn't care. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him softly.

"Hey, you," she replied, smiling deep into his eyes, "Take me home, _mon nounours_."

"Your what?"

"My teddy bear," she grinned. He pulled a mock-scowl, then chuckled and hugged her tightly.

"I'm glad you're back," he said, with heartfelt simplicity.

He slung her backpack over one shoulder, took her hand in his, and they walked through the concourse together, just two lovers feeling for the first time the comfort and thrill of reuniting. There would be other homecoming meetings, he knew, when family and work and the need for a getaway came calling, but this one felt...decisive.

Jess was home, and so was he. Wherever they both happened to be.

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"Flack."

"Tonight. You, me, bottle of wine...I'll wear that black negligée I know you like."

This was based on strictly empirical evidence. The first time she'd worn it for him, she'd wound up pinned against her own living room wall in minutes, scorching hungry kisses quickly cresting to surges of mindless need, the filmy silk hiked up and hanging off one shoulder, her legs pulling him deeper with every hard thrust. Yes, he liked it. And she needed him tonight, just like that.

"Mom?" he replied, deadpan.

Yep, she'd gotten under his fair skin, and in public, by the sound of it. "Euch. Never mind. What're you doing?"

"Breaking up with an old friend. You?"

_Informants come and informants go_, she thought. "Babysitting," she replied, "Taking Connor Dunbrook over to the Grand Jury. With a murder rap hanging over his head, he decided to save his own ass and testify against Daddy. Should be enough to put Robert Dunbrook away for at least twenty years." She looked across the diner to their table, where the waitress was just setting down her plate. "The good son's treating us to breakfast."

"Lemme guess: Tillery Diner, two eggs over easy, turkey bacon on the crispy side, glass of O.J."

"Am I that predictable?" she asked, with straight-faced irony. Sometimes she walked on the wild side and asked for sourdough toast instead of multi, but she rarely had to place an order anymore, in any of the diners she frequented.

"Yes, you're that predictable. All right, tonight sounds great. I'll pick up some stuff, and meet you at your place around - "

The hair on the back of her neck didn't rise, and she didn't see her life flash in front of her eyes. The world simply went to hell. The full-sized rig barreling through the front window of the diner might, she thought for a split second, have spun out on the street and lost control, but the deadly accurate muzzle-flashes from behind the half-open doors were no accident.

The phone dropped from her hand as she reached for her gun.

"_DOWN!_" she yelled. "Everybody down!"

Carmody, who had his vest on, leapt up to cover her, and Sigurdson ducked, ran, and shoved a few people out the back door. He managed to get the six nearest patrons out before turning back to the mêlée. Gunfire spattered the walls, and two wait staff went down, one shot in the arm and one in the side. People were screaming and running, some too panicked even to head for the door. Two figures in black were standing their ground on the floor, keeping their backs to the rig.

She flicked a glance around the diner. No sign of Connor, handcuffs and all. So she knew what was going down, and that people would die in here unless the assault team was stopped in their tracks immediately.

Carmody was trying to take down the driver, who was well shielded by the bulletproofed door of the rig. A figure in black jumped down from the passenger side. She knew he was wearing full body armor from the way he simply stood and surveyed the room. He spotted her, saw her gun, and pointed his Eagle straight at her. Unprotected as she was, she had a mere shadow of a chance.

She didn't even need to think.

Blocking out the chaos and the deafening racket, she went into combat stance and emptied her entire fucking clip at him, aiming for the joints. He swore and grabbed his shoulder and she smiled grimly.

Something punched her in the upper chest. Was Carmody pushing her down? No - he was across the room, staring with a look of utter horror, and everything was moving very slowly.

Funny, they talked about being brothers and sisters in uniform, but she'd never known that Carmody really did think of her as his sister. She felt his shock and his love reaching her in waves. And heard clearly, as if he'd shouted, his fury at not having taken the hit himself, since he had a vest.

"_Sig!_ Angell's hit!" he screamed.

_I am?_ she thought.

"Shit!" hollered Sig. "Can't get there!"

She saw Sig, trying to cover a group of cowering civilians. She saw the look on his face, felt battle-logic warring with his need to help her. She tried to somehow telegraph to him to watch out for himself, and not to worry about her.

Then came a searing burn in her side, and she was knocked backwards off her feet. For a brief flicker of a moment she was more pissed than anything, thinking she'd just had the wind knocked out of her, and that she needed to get up on the instant.

Then came a swelling red agony of pain she hadn't known was even possible, taking her breath and her thoughts away for an interminable moment.

She understood, then. She registered that everything was growing quiet now. No more shooting. That was good. She heard people moaning, and tried to focus on Carmody, to get his attention, but her vision was blurring. She needed to report in. Connor had escaped. Sythe would be furious and Don would be horrified and helpless to assist her. She just needed to stay awake long enough to make her report...

She tried to roll over, and a fresh shockwave of pain took her breath again. She felt dizziness descending. The edges of her vision dimmed and shimmered, and she dropped out of consciousness for a moment. With a rattling, sucking breath, she blinked and opened her eyes again. She smelled blood all over, felt cold air on torn wet flesh, and knew it was a bad hit. She made a vast effort and managed to bring her hand up to cover the wound, but there was no strength left to put pressure on it.

_Don, I'm so sorry...I don't know how much longer..._

Her eyes dimmed again. This time everything stayed dark, though she knew her eyes were open. And then she heard sirens outside. Everything was soft and black, and the intolerable pain surely belonged to someone else, someone lying broken and bleeding out on the floor beneath her.

"_Jess!_ Jess...hey, babe. Hey, I'm here. Can you look at me."

She knew his touch, and rolled her head towards the sound of his voice. He took her hand away from her side to look. _Love, you shouldn't see me like this._

"_Where's the ambulance?_" he screamed. Then, babbling, nearly incoherent: "You're gonna be fine. Everything's gonna be fine..."

Strong, beloved arms lifting her, and a broad chest against her cheek. _Are we dancing? We never went dancing..._

Everything went fuzzy after that.

"Open the door! Help me get her in the car!"

_Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un combat..._

A cacophony of sounds, sharp smells, only the burning pain keeping her from drifting away completely.

"Jess, stay with us. Stay with us."

Then: "She's out. Just as well: get her intubated and start a drip."

_Mais moi, je suis ici_, she thought, very clearly, as the sounds receded. _Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?_

_Moi, je quel suis?_

_Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup._

_Faisais-je?_

_Oui._

 

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He'd selected "Holst: Mercury, the Winged Messenger", and the music played softly through his small stereo. The bright instruments rattled in their stainless steel trays, as he wheeled the utility cart up to the autopsy bay. He glanced at the woman who lay perfectly still on the table, and reached up to change the angle of the video camera and light overhead. He folded the blue drape down to the end of the table.

Resting the heels of his hands on the table, he sighed, and thought back over the previous hour, standing in the Trauma OR with Don, before Jess was transported to the ME's suite.

"Sid, I can't bear the thought of her being autopsied." Don had confessed, the words tumbling out between scratchy gasps.

"I know. But I'll be with her the whole way, and..." He did not add, "I'll take care of her as if she were my own daughter." While the sentiment might have been true, there were few people in the world who would consider autopsying one's child an act of love. So Sid had learned in his career.

Don had been barely able to let go of Jessica's hand, and only by sheer inner grit had he prevented himself from gathering her up in his arms and sobbing against her. Sid privately thought that it would have done the younger man more good than swallowing hard and turning away. Death was impossible for the mind to grasp while she was still whole, still warm and pink.

It was cruel. The two should have had many long years of coming home safely to one another.

There were many things that Sid kept locked within his heart and mind. It was a light burden upon his shoulders, and he felt a certain responsibility for keeping the innocent secrets of the dead as much as speaking for them. Death cast a person's intimacies into a glaring light. Not today, however. Out of legal necessity, badge loyalty and friendship, Jessica was about to give up all the information her body could provide. And, while Sid could have, and probably should have, passed the post-mortem to an ME who hadn't known her so well, he would not give up this last service he could give her. When the two men next met, Sid knew, Don would grill him for every single detail, and not only to further the investigation into her death. Don would be looking, desperately grasping, for any last details of Jessica's life to hold onto.

He stroked her nut-brown fringe off her forehead, and smiled down at her, sadly. She appeared to be sleeping soundly, an ironic side-effect of having passed away completely relaxed, under sedation. He was glad, at any rate, that that was the image Don would eventually remember.

"I'm sorry I have to do this," he told her, "But you know better than anyone how important it is. And you know, if you're anywhere around, you might even find it a little bit interesting. I think I would, anyway."

He carefully cut away the white hospital gown with which one of the nurses had redressed her. How slight she was. He'd always thought of her as a powerful woman, striding along in her boots and leather jackets, but what there was of her was lean muscle over long, birdlike bones.

"Okay, honey, I'm going to start with the external exam."

He clipped his microphone to his collar and hit the power button on the camera's remote control.

 

Three hours later, he asked Rashida, whose elegant stitching was legendary, to put Jessica back together, while he went upstairs to transcribe his notes and heat up his lunch. Rashida nodded, grateful for something to do, and set to work. Neither wound nor Y-incision would be visible, once she was dressed in her uniform, but they would know they'd given her the best they could.

* * * * *

When the lab reports began coming back, he sat down to assemble his findings.

Beside "MEDICAL CAUSE OF DEATH" he typed: "Exsanguinary Hypoxia."

"DUE TO: Terminal shock from blood loss, pulmonary arterial rupture.

ANTECEDENT CAUSE: Bullet wound to upper left abdomen.

CLASSIFICATION OF DEATH: FOUL PLAY. Investigation ongoing.

TOXICOLOGY:  
Heart blood:  
Prescription drugs: Depot medroxyprogesterone acetate (Depo-Provera) last administered by injection 40 days prior, by Dr. Susan Hubanks, New York City.  
Trace amounts of HCG present (confirms result from urinalysis.)  
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs  
Urine:  
Trace amounts of HCG present (Primary and control samples both tested)  
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs

HISTOPATHOLOGY:  
Negative. Injuries sustained perimortem, with no reaction present in surrounding tissues.

RADIOLOGY:  
Broken ribs L-VII, L-VIII, L-IX, R-IX, anterior aspect. Cracked ribs L-VI, R-VIII, anterior aspect. Consistent with direct and percussive bullet trauma.  
Cracked unciform, right wrist, and dislocated fifth metacarpal, same site. Consistent with reflexive breaking of backwards fall.

EVIDENCE RECOVERY:  
See report: "Glass Fragment Analysis"  
See report: "Recovered Ballistics"  
No trace evidence found.

SUMMARY OF AUTOPSY FINDINGS:  
External examination:  
Det. Angell was in excellent health and showed no signs of existing illness. Fatal trauma from bullet wound, upper left abdomen. Bullet was located and removed by trauma team prior to death. Glass shrapnel found in skin of middle left abdomen over localized area six by eight inches in size. Non-fatal bullet wound to upper left thoracic cavity. Keloid scar tissue present on outer right thigh and on back, below right shoulder, from documented duty events (2001, 2003.) Old surgical scars from appendectomy and laproscopic surgery on right knee. Evidence of recent sexual activity including minor bruising on hips and thighs. Of no consequence to fatal event."

He thought, scratched his jaw, backspaced over the entire line, and retyped: "No sexual trauma."

"Internal examination:  
All organs presented within normal weight and size ranges (see full report), and in good condition prior to event. Left lung perforated and deflated (photos 5.1 - 5.3). Pulmonary artery badly compromised, with rupture 5mm x 12mm (photos 3.1 - 3.7, and endoscopic video from trauma surgery (see enclosed DVD. General tearing of smaller local blood vessels and tissue (photos 6.3 - 6.6). Upper left chest trauma from single 45mm bullet, which passed through with minimal tissue damage but for a nicked rib and cracked scapula. Left lung and pulmonary artery were perforated by single 50mm bullet. (see report: Recovered Ballistics). Glass fragments near wound were consistent with broken window glass from crime scene (photos 11.1 - 11.5; see lab report: 'Glass Fragment Analysis'). These fragments caused multiple lacerations and superficial severing of smaller blood vessels in area.

Trace amounts of HcG present in the urine and blood necessiated an intrauterine examination. 2 mm embedded embryo located under 4x direct camera magnification, therefore Det. Angell was 8-10 days pregnant. It is unlikely she was aware of this, and certainly she would not yet have had medical confirmation. No recent antibiotic prescriptions or evidence of antibiotic use has been found that could account for contraceptive failure. It is possible that she was within the &gt;1% of Depo-Provera users who may conceive despite proper usage."

 

Sid stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment before lowering his glasses and sitting back. How unbearably tempting to delete the entire last paragraph. Don was already acting like a man with nothing left to lose. His grim remark on Jessica's killers - "And God help them" - echoed in Sid's mind. But there it must stay. Not only did Don have a right to know, but it was important to learn how Jessica had managed to conceive in the first place.

His cellphone buzzed on the desk beside him. He noted the caller ID and sighed.

"Don, what can I do for you?"

"Hey, Sid. I - ah, got a couple of questions. About Jess. Just need to set my mind straight."

"Of course. You want me to come over to the station house?"

"There's a coffee stand across from the precinct, if that works."

"Yes, that works. I'll see you there."

* * * * *

The young detective looked grey and hollow-eyed, but Sid forebore from suggesting he go home. For a while, in the very beginning, work could be an anaesthetic, and a reason to keep breathing.

"Hey. Thanks for coming."

"No problem at all. What're you having?"

"Just tea." Don gestured to the steaming paper cup in his hand. "It's this stuff Jess gets when she's strung out. It's supposed to be relaxing. Tastes like weeds, but she says it works."

Sid overlooked the present tense. It would take time. "Probably a good idea. Single latte, no foam," he requested.

When they were sitting on a stone bench nearby, Don took a deep breath and launched into an obviously rehearsed speech. "So, you know I took Jess to the hospital in a squad car. The ambulance was nowhere and she had no time. What I gotta know is - " he swallowed and stared down into his tea, "I picked her up and ran with her to the car. Did I make it worse? Did I move something around that might have..."

"No. No, absolutely not." he reached out and touched the younger man's arm. "It was a fatal shot. You didn't do her any harm. Even if it happened right outside the OR, there would have been no chance. But they tried. She shouldn't have held out that long, but she did."

"What did they do? Why couldn't they save her?"

It was not a rhetorical plea but a direct question. Don needed strong, practical words to hold onto, and Sid was grateful to be able to explain, simply and clearly, all that the trauma team had done.

"There was no way they could access the site without removing the bullet, so that was their first task. It wasn't tamping down the wound - removing it didn't injure her any further. But it had done too much damage. Pulmonary arteries are hell to fix, because you can't reroute them anywhere. They can only go back to the lung, which was badly damaged already. First they tried clamping off the artery and putting her on a heart pump. They intubated her lung to reinflate, but it was bleeding badly inside. They had to cauterize the bleeding, and leave the lung deflated, against policy, so they could come back to it later, but she'd probably have lost part of it if she'd survived. They kept her going on one lung while they worked. They tried surgical glue and a synthetic graft onto the artery, like a bicycle tire patch, but the wound was too large, and there were micro-perforations that extended over two inches either side - so they couldn't just clip it all out and try to draw the ends together. They didn't have time to harvest a leg artery. They were about to attempt to induce hypothermia, to slow down all her vitals, but there was no time. She couldn't maintain any blood pressure, even with plasma and the machine. She'd lost too much."

The detective listened carefully, trying to take it all in. "They used armor-piercing rounds." he said starkly. "Even if she'd been wearing a vest, it wouldn't have made a difference. Just like wearing a t-shirt."

"Mac's got every pair of hands out there. You can help her best by taking care of yourself and being ready to move on whatever evidence turns up."

"You've been hanging around cops way too long."

"Yet here I am."

They sat in silence, sipping and watching the milling crowds on their evening commute. Sid's thoughts tumbled blindly as he sought for the words to speak of Jessica's pregnancy. It was hardly the time or place, but soon, he would have to say something. He'd need Don's help in retracing Jessica's habits in the past couple of weeks, and it would be sensitive territory to say the least.

"How are the others doing?" Sid asked, averting this thoughts for the present. "Carmody and Sigurdson?"

"In pieces. Not literally. Carmody got his arm grazed, that's all. He still thinks there's something he could've done for Jess, even though he'd have been taken out too. There's a whole family that wants to thank Sig for literally standing over them and saving their lives, and he can't even call them back. Neither of them will come near me."

"It'll take time. It's only been a few hours, Don. They know Jess took the same oath as they did."

"Yeah, she did. I like to think I'd have done the same as she did - but you never know till it happens to you, do you?" Don stood up. "Thanks, Doc. I gotta get back to work. You going home?"

"Yeah. The kids are home for reading break...we're having dinner. For once."

"Make the best of it," Don offered a small smile. Sid nodded and shook his hand.

He watched the younger man cross the street and disappear into the station house.

His thoughts returned to Jessica. Like a growing number of women in time-strapped professions, she depended upon a quarterly injection for birth control, as the method that necessitated the least amount of fuss and didn't require a regular daily schedule. It was over 99% effective, with no room for human error unless a scheduled injection was missed, which Jessica hadn't. What factors could open a window to conception? Antibiotics and antimicrobials had come up negative. Some problem with the Depo batch, in which case a full investigation needed to be launched? Lack of sleep or continued anxiety and stress could affect the timing of a woman's cycle, but that would have no effect on the drug's function.

_Anxiety and stress..._ his mind whispered. _This stuff Jess gets when she's strung out...tastes like weeds._

Neurons connected and pinged.

He looked towards the coffee stall and stood up. Pitching his empty cup into the garbage can to one side, he approached the barista. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

"That tea my friend just had. The relaxing blend. Can you tell me what's in it?"

"Oh, it's on the box. Here." she handed him a standard sized box of teabags. Sid turned it over and ran his finger down the list of ingredients.

Peppermint leaves, chamomile flowers, St. John's Wort, wild sage leaves, and hibiscus flower.

_Oh, no..._

If Sid hadn't been a doctor, and moreover, hadn't been the kind of father who delighted in driving his kids crazy with scientifically backed lectures about their health, he wouldn't have seen the answer in front of him. But, being the sort of dad who now e-mailed his collegebound daughters the very latest in women's health research, he knew he'd found it.

St. John's Wort, often considered a safe, herbal remedy for mild stress and anxiety, suppressed the endocrine system, so that the nervous system literally didn't react as strongly to stimulus. These endocrinal effects meant that it could lower the effectiveness of hormone-based contraceptives. And if Jessica had had even two cups a day for a few days...

_Add one couple committed and trusting enough not to use condoms anymore, and there you go._

"Thanks," he said, handing the box back.

"You want one?"

"Maybe later."

_It'll be out of her system by now, but I can include an educated guess in the report. That's the easy part...but when the hell do I tell Don?_

_Right now. Right away. He has to know. And I'll have a few notices put up in the precinct bathrooms. Don't want this happening to anyone else._

He took a deep breath and crossed the street.

* * * * *

It wasn't nearly as bad as he expected. Which, he realized later on, should have given him pause for thought, but at the time, Don was still so deep in shock that very little else could touch him.

"We did something good," was Don's first quiet response, after Sid outlined his suppositions, sitting with him in a small private conference room.

"You guys did a huge amount of good."

"Not what I meant."

"No, I know what you meant. " He could see that Don wasn't talking about bringing a soul into being to increase any glory to be contained in a Catholic vision of Heaven, but of having reached a major milestone with Jessica in the short time they had. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you."

"No...there's nothin' to be sorry for. She didn't even know." he paused and shook his head slowly. "Maybe she does now. A week ago? God. She'd just got back from a family visit. She had all this work piled up after her break, and she was pulling fourteen, fifteen hour days...if I hadn't been staying with her, we'd never even have seen each other..."

The younger man was beginning to look a little shaky, prompting Sid to ask: "Can I call anyone for you? You don't look so good."

"No, no, I just gotta...I'll be fine. Sid, I'm glad it was you. I know you took good care of her."

"You know I have to leave it in the report. It's going to be read by others. The lab techs only saw the sample reference numbers, no name, so right now you and I are the only ones who know. I wish..."

Don shook his head again and masked a snuffle by scrubbing his face with a hand. "I know. But maybe you could do me a favor - send the full report only to Sythe, and to Mac? Then everyone's covered. They'll know what to do. It's just - too much to have out there."

"That I can do." he stood up, and pressed Don's shoulder. "These are just words, but it does get better. Over time."

"Mac said the same thing."

"He'd be one to know. Call me anytime, Don, if I can help."

"Hey, Doc? Just a thought...you don't know, do you...I mean, there's no way to tell..."

"No. Too early. Gender isn't differentiated until around two, two and a half weeks."

"It's probably just as well," Don said hollowly. "Less to imagine."

Sid nodded back. _Less to torture himself with_, he thought, sadly, and shut the door behind him. He kept within his heart the addendum: _But genetically speaking, everyone's a girl at first._

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"Sam." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Hey, Sammy."

"Hey, Donnie," she said, in the quiet, hesitant voice he'd come to associate with her more difficult days of sobriety. "How you doin'?"

"I'm...not so good. Listen, I got some bad news. I wanted you to hear it from me. You might need to talk to whoever you talk to."

"What?" she asked sharply. "Is it Dad? Mom?"

"No, it's...it's Jess. She was killed yesterday morning. On duty." He took a breath. "She went down fighting."

She gasped aloud. "My God. Donnie, what happened? Oh, never mind, I know you can't tell me while it's...I'm so sorry. What can I do?"

He knew she wasn't trying to switch off her reactions or move to safer emotional ground. Like their father, she operated in practicalities, and staying busy in critical moments was the saving grace of both father and daughter. He appreciated that she was trying to care for him and look out for herself at the same time.

"Can you call Mom and Dad, and let them know? Tell them I'll talk to them later tonight." he asked. "And Nathan, too. They'll understand. They'll hear all the details soon enough. I just don't think I can...and I don't need their reactions on top of..."

"I got you. Don't worry 'bout it. What about Jess' people? You seen them yet?"

"I talked to Cliff. The funeral's tomorrow afternoon."

"They'll be glad to see you."

"They'll be so nice I don't know how I'll stand it."

"Same way we get always through stuff. One thing at a time. Her old man's a cop. They know what it's like. Hell, I know what it's like. You just stay safe, okay? And call me later. I'll tell Mom and Dad, don't worry."

"And Nathan. He didn't really know her, but they got on all right, that one time. He'll wanna know. Thanks, really. I know it's a lot to ask."

"No, no. You got plenty to deal with. Better it comes from me - you know how they get with emotional stuff." she said. Then, "Hey, Donnie?"

"Yeah?

"She was my friend, too. I really thought...I mean, I hoped you guys..."

"Yeah. I know."

He hung up. He couldn't take any more. He knew Sam would understand.

 

* * * * *

Chérie was so gracious he nearly started crying again, even though he'd just spent ten minutes in his car managing to stop.

"Donald, it's good to see you," she said, kissing both his cheeks.

"You, too. Chérie, I'm so - "

Her mouth tightened - so like Jess, he thought - and she shook her head. "_Non_. From others, yes, but not from you. There's not a thing to be sorry for. It's we who are sorry for you."

He couldn't think of a thing to say, so he stared at the toe of his shoe and nodded.

"I know how you policemen need to stay _detaché_," Chérie went on, "So I know that this might be a hard request. But will you stay in touch? You have become very dear to us, you know."

"I will," he promised, though not at all sure if he could follow through. He cleared his throat. "My mother said to tell you she's thinking of you. Actually, she wanted to know if you’d like her to ask for a Mass said for Jess. She's going to call later on, when things have..."

Chérie nodded, her eyes glimmering. "_Je comprends_. Thank you, Donald. Cliff is in the living room. Will you go see him? I'm afraid Richard was called away - he'll be here in a half hour, and the other boys not until this evening."

Which was a rather skillful way of letting him know to make an early escape if he so chose, he realized. No question where Jess learned subtlety.

"Thanks."

He kissed her cheek, and went in search of Cliff.

He'd honestly thought that the next time he spoke with Cliff, it would be to do him the old-fashioned courtesy of letting him know he wanted to marry his daughter. Flack didn't think anyone would be surprised, even if they hadn't even been together a year. There would have been some serious heckling about her pregnancy, once the news came out, but nothing but genuine happiness for them at the heart of it.

He'd never tell them. It would only cause them needless pain.

Cliff was hard at work pushing reality away with finger sandwiches and a regular shots of bourbon, for which Flack couldn’t blame him in the least. Smiling and nodding pleasantly to the twenty or so guests who were currently in the living room, managed a genuine smile when he saw Flack.

"Thank God," he said quietly, gripping Flack's hand. "Someone who gets it."

Flack found himself almost wanting to laugh. He understood.

"Stay and talk to me for a bit, would you? Or just pretend." Cliff went on, eyeing the crowd.

"Oh, I think can put a few sentences together for you," Flack returned. "Looks like a good spread out there."

"Yeah. The church ladies show their love with food. And the neighbors."

"That’s a lot of love," Flack said softly. Cliff nodded.

Flack realized that the hardest part of his errand was upon him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Jess' NYPD badge, and stared down at it for a moment. How many nights had it sat next to his, on one of their nightstands? Not nearly enough. Then there was the time they'd swapped without knowing it...Lindsay was the only one who noticed, and she'd never let him forget it...

He passed it to Cliff. It had been his once. He should never have had to take it back.

Cliff rubbed his thumb over the bright metal, and began talking.

"It was mine, you know. And my father's before that."

"Yes, I know. Wanted you to have it back."

Clif cleared his throat gruffly and nodded. He reached behind him, and picked up a framed photograph off the sideboard. "Four sons, and none of them wanted any part of bein' a cop. But Jess? It was in her blood. I wanted her to be a Girl Scout. She wound up a shortstop."

Flack had seen the photo on a previous visit, of a determined ten-year-old Jess at bat. It was a window on her life that had made him smile, but now, he felt the impact of the realization that there wouldn't ever be any children for them, no catch practice at dusk, no bedtime stories. No memories to look back on. Just possibilities turned to impossibilities.

His arms remembered the small weight of Lucy Messer, and the feeling of being compelled to watch over something so utterly helpless and tiny. He took a deep breath against rising tears. He couldn't tell Danny and Lindsay, either. Many years down the road, maybe, but not now.

"There was nothing I could've done to keep her from becomin' a cop."

"I wish I knew what to say..."

"You can tell me that she didn't die protecting that scumbag," Cliff ground out. "A murderer."

"No, I can't. But I can tell you that she did the job the best she could. No matter what the assignment. That's who she was."

"She was too damn brave for her own good."

"What I hear, she took after her old man," Flack offered.

Cliff shook his hand, hard, and managed a half-smile that Flack correctly interpreted to mean, _You too, son._

Suddenly it was too much. It wasn't so much another oncoming crying jag as emotional claustrophobia. He and Cliff had been wavering between treating each other like fellow cops, and like family. While Cliff might have been okay with letting his guard down in his own house, Flack knew that he'd quickly break down in front of the whole assembly, if that happened.

"I got work to do," he said, somewhat lamely. He was about to turn away, but Cliff's voice stopped him, softer and more direct than before.

"Don. Jess always had a smile on her face. But the last few months, it was different. It was a smile I've never seen before."

_This should've been where I cut in with "And sir, I intend to put that smile on her face every day for the rest of her life,"_ Flack thought. _Not anymore._ But he had just enough left in him to make a son's vow, of a sort.

"I promise you that I won't stop..."

"I know." Cliff nodded. "I know."

He gave the older man a tight hug, trying to impart some sort of strength, or at least resilience. "You take care of yourself, all right?"

Flack left before Rick and his girlfriend Aislin turned up. They'd spoken by phone, and they'd meet later. Not now. Ash was an EMT, like Rick, and while the two of them spent less time in the line of fire than cops, their shifts were not without high drama, and they knew what it was like to be lovers and partners. They'd have an idea what he was going through, and he'd prefer to see them in the comfort of his own home, when he could disburden himself and talk about Jess without all of them trying to remain stoic. It would do them good.

He sat in his car, trying to take deep breaths and fend off more tears before heading into traffic. There were moments he felt it was ridiculous of him to cry so much. It wasn't going to bring her back, and only gave him a sick headache. Always in the next moment, he'd think that Jess, and the few months they'd shared, were worth shedding every tear in his body.

_I should have been there. If I'd only been there..._

_Even though I wouldn't have been wearing a vest, either. _

_I'll work myself into the ground if I have to, Jess, to hunt these animals down. It's all I have left to do for you, and I wouldn't give it any less._

Even though it wouldn't bring her back.

Even if it meant shutting down some massive conspiracy, even if it meant accolades and mayoral thanks for everyone, it wouldn't bring Jess back.

Or their baby.

It was just senseless. There couldn't be a reason Jess and the baby were taken. There couldn't. What God would be so cruel?

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He came home after killing Simon Cade, and locked the apartment door behind him.

He locked the bathroom door, too, and stripped off his clothes with distaste, even though there was no trace on them. He'd already turned over the shirt with the residue-spattered cuff to Mac, as per protocol.

He moved quickly, his movements automatic, trying not to think. Turned on the shower and stripped off his clothes, leaving them on the floor. Stepped under the hot spray, rubbing his hands over his face and arms. He thought of Jess standing there with him, laughing, the horrors of another New York crime scene sluicing off them and away down the drain, washing each other clean.

He turned the hot water off with a jerk of his wrist, and cursed aloud at the painful shock of cold on his skin. He grit his teeth for as long as he could stand it, and gave up on the shower idea.

Jess was everywhere.

_Cade_ was everywhere.

He pulled on fresh clothes, and headed into the living room. His cellphone was blinking with a message. He thought wildly that he was being called back by IA, and his heart pounded, but when he checked the number, it was Sam's. He sat down on the couch to listen.

"Hey, Donnie," Sam's voice came clearly through the speaker. "You did something for me once, and I never really got a chance to say thanks. So here...

There was a pause, and then he heard the voices of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush.

"_In this proud land, we grew up strong_  
We were wanted, all along  
I was taught to fight, taught to win,  
I never thought I could fail...

_Rest your head, you worry too much._  
It's gonna be all right.  
When times get rough, you can fall back on us  
Don't give up...please don't give up..."

_Oh, Sammie, don't be proud of me._ he thought. _Not after what I did._

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

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"Everyone raise your glass, please."

This wasn't a bloodletting, or even a wake, thought it might well devolve into one. Each of them would find their own way through shock and grief, later on. This was a moment of honour. This was Stella, gathering their family around him, leading the way forward, with grace and dignity and resolve.

He knew gratitude, for Stella, for all of them. He knew love for them. But his feelings were scattershot among memories and the ache of the present.

He felt like this must be a waking nightmare, and any moment now, he'd hear Jess calling to him to wake up.

He felt like he was already marked as a killer, a vigilante, outside the laws of man and of God.

He felt like he was watching himself going mad, only he was as sane and clear-headed as he'd ever been in his life.

He only heard one out of every few words that were spoken at the bar, as if he was on the end of a faulty phone line. He needed Jess so badly he didn't know if he could stand up on his own legs. He needed to tell her he killed the man who killed her. He needed her to scream at him that it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and not to use her or their child as an excuse. He needed her to forgive him.

He needed to go home to her, and take her in his arms, and say, "Babe, you would not believe the day I've had," and she'd take him to bed to curl up with her head on his shoulder, and they'd talk until they were talked out. He needed the warmth of her skin grounding him, and the fierce, protective clutch of her embrace as she stood guard between him and his nightmares. As he did for her when she needed.

_And never would again._

_Never again._

_Never again._

A car drove by, slowing as it passed the bar. Mac glanced towards it as if by instinct. And then with no warning, the world shattered.

Bullets sprayed into the quiet bar. Everywhere was exploding glass lancing through the air, and screaming patrons, the sound rising above the gunfire. All anyone could do was hit the ground, and it went on and on and on...

It was as if God had heard him wondering what it was like when Jess went down.

 

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* * *

  
Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

_"Mon nounours"_  
\- My teddy bear / cuddle-bug

_"Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un autre combat..."_  
\- Dad's gonna be pissed I got into another fight..."

_"Mais moi, je suis ici...Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?"_  
\- But I'm here. I can see you. I can hear you. There, is that me?

_"Et moi, je quel suis?"_  
\- And what am I?

_"Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup."_  
\- That doesn't matter. But you, you mattered.

_"Faisais-je?"_  
\- Did I?

_"Oui."_  
\- Yes.

_"...detache..."_  
\- Detached, disengaged

_"Je comprends"_  
\- I understand.  


* * *

  
_Now go and read the [Wrinkle-in-Time version](http://fixomnia.livejournal.com/9604.html), and take a deep breath..._  


* * *


	7. Collateral: Wrinkle in Time Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jessica flies through a tesseract at ten minutes before noon, travelling 500 mph at 30,000 feet, and Donald steps through the same tesseract at 12:15 pm, standing stationary at ground level, at what point will they meet up on the same plane of existence? And what the heck happens next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having read this far, you weren't expecting me to verge into fairy-tales, were you? :) Reality junkie here.
> 
> This brief departure from canon is dedicated to the four officers of the Lakewood Police Department, Seattle WA, who were shot down at a café on November 29, 2009: Sergeant Mark Renninger, and Officers Ronald Owens, Tina Griswold and Greg Richards. Police from all over the world attended their memorial in an Honour Guard of over 20,000 marchers, and as Lt. Sythe notes below, it's still all over YouTube.
> 
> As some of you know, I'm a database geek in an RCMP detachment. Different badge, different national anthem - same family, as over a thousand Mounties who attended the memorial can attest. This incident, like the Mayerthorpe shootings in Canada, did more than call attention to the hazards of ordinary, everyday policing. It caused an awful lot of police and police families to take a hard look at their life priorities, and brought the whole family together in a tragic, but ultimately forward-looking way. While the Tillery and Lakewood shootings were six months apart (bridging prime-time drama and real-life, that is), and on opposite coasts, it seemed fitting to work in some of the reactions I remember from the brass.
> 
> And as tempting as I know it is to ignore the in-canon chapter...reading it will help this one make more sense.

\---------------------------------  
Chapter Six  
Collateral (Wrinkle in Time Remix)  
\---------------------------------

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_The body extends like a thought_  
Like something you almost remember  
Your memory is made of light  
With your face shining like fate  
Becoming something I can keep...

\- The Golden Palominos, "Touch You"  
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"Still doesn't make sense," he murmured into her shoulder, obstinate to the last wisp of awareness.

She stroked the sole of her foot along his leg, and smiled. His predictability was as comforting as the solid warmth of him against her back, and his strong arm tightening reflexively around her. She'd missed this terribly. Floating between sleep and consciousness together, knowing they were safe under each other's watch.

"I'm here, babe." she said. "It was weird, but it doesn't matter now."

The airport screw-up might never have happened, and any lingering residue of their difficult long-distance debriefing of the Kolovos affair was burned away in the pleasure of reuniting. She was home again.

And it _was_ home. Montreal was home, and so was New York. She didn't have to choose. She knew that now.

She drifted off, her mind flitting back and forth over the past few days.

 

After a week of catching up with the Canadian contingent of Angells, she'd been driven by her brother Jerome from Ottawa to their old neighbourhood in Montreal. She'd spent the last two days of her vacation with her oldest childhood friend Monique, with whom she'd gone hostelling around France and Italy after high school. She and Monique walked all over Outremont, trying to recognize their old haunts in among new developments. They stayed up talking well into the night, recalling their early days in school, summers playing baseball and winters playing hockey, and Jess' plan to run away and hide in Monique's closet when the Angell's move to New York became a reality.

"_Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?_" Monique demanded, seeing right through Jess' carefully restrained descriptions. Jess swirled the last of her martini and blushed. She knew it was patently obvious that she missed him.

"_Trop de travail,"_ she explained, "_Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!_"

"_Je sauverai le prix d'avion,_" Monique promised, beaming. "I wouldn't want you to have to wait just for me. You, married! Who'd believe it?"

"God, I know. You better come see us soon."

After a few hours' sleep after dawn, she caught a cab to Laval and texted Don to let him know she was on her way. There was a mercifully short wait in Departures, and then she dropped into her seat on the plane, and fell into a deep sleep all the way to La Guardia.

She awoke from a vivid, semi-lucid dream, to find it was suddenly noon and brightly sunny. She was as groggy as if she'd taken sleeping meds, hauled up from the benthic depths of consciousness. This was odd. She was used to wrenching her sleeping hours around on the job, so surely one nights' interrupted rest shouldn't have such an effect.

Altitude and sleep dep, she decided, and a week of high emotions, reconnecting with friends, and two older brothers who still considered themselves to be surrogate fathers.

With her dual citizenship and her rareified security clearance, she flew through US Customs, behind a pair of teenaged German backpackers, and an Indian family with two small boys. She collected her own backpack from the carousel and began to feel a little more alert. Don would be waiting just outside the pass-doors, in the Arrivals lounge.

Only he wasn't.

Which was, she had to admit, a downer. They'd rarely spent more than a day apart since they met. It would have been nice, for once in her life, to be met by a boyfriend at the end of a journey.

_Traffic, probably_, she thought. _High noon on the freeways, in more ways than one, and on a sunny Sunday too._

She tried his cellphone. It rang once, and then crackled, and went to silence. A second and a third call met with dead air. Not even any static.

Hm. Perhaps he'd been called into something.

She hitched up her backpack and headed over to a coffee stand, conveniently situated near a wall-mounted TV screen tuned to a news station. If there was a major event going on in the city, she'd lay odds on Don being involved somehow. He'd trained as a crisis situation tactician in Narco, before moving over to Homicide, and didn't mind being called back to assist as needed.

Sitting at the counter, idly stirring her dark roast, she flashed back on the many evenings when her mother had fed all the kids and delayed her own dinner, only for Cliff to finally telephone to say he wouldn't likely be home until much later. She remembered the look that often flickered across Chérie's face before she put on a bright smile for her children, and sat down to her solitary meal. And here she and Don were, trying to make it work from both directions. Given that their futures were looking more entwined by the day, maybe the universe was trying to send her a counter-balance to the giddy daydreams she'd been falling into lately. They were born to be cops. The badge came first, even if their relationship was a close second.

They were on the same page now, but what would happen if children came along? Or an injury serious enough to pull one of them out of duty for good?

This minor hiccup was hardly worth thinking about, by comparison.

As the caffeine began to work through her system, she thought of trying a pay phone, in case her cellphone hadn't locked on to the local network yet. She found a bank of phones nearby. This time, Don's line went straight to voicemail. And she didn't have any messages on her own line, either.

After a half hour, two messages left for Don, and three more flights' worth of arrivals, she went to the Passenger Services desk, and asked if there were any messages for her. There were none. Never mind. That's what taxis were for.

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Her phone rang when she was about ten minutes from home, and she leapt for it.

"Hey!" she said. "Where are you? Did I miss you? Your phone's been off."

"I'm here at the airport...I swear, it's been on the whole time. I've been trying to call you. I've been here an hour," he replied. "Where are _you_?"

"In a cab, almost home."

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Jess. I don't know what happened. I got here early and everything. Even got Passenger Services to check when you cleared Customs."

This was exceedingly strange. "And they didn't say that I'd been looking for _you_?" she asked. "Two detectives, within minutes of each other?"

"No. Maybe I got a different clerk," he grumbled, and cussed under his breath. "Anyway, listen, I've booked off for the day. I can follow you back to your place, if you like."

"_Yes_, I like," she said pointedly. "Eight days is too long. I'm going into withdrawal."

"On my way."

_Don wouldn't bullshit his way out of trouble_, she thought. Somehow they'd been in the same concourse, trying to call one another. No more than thirty feet apart.

At least this way, she had a few minutes at her apartment before he arrived, to brush her teeth and pull a comb through her hair. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror. They'd been together nearly seven months now, and the anticipatory flutters showed no signs of letting up. This was going to be a fun homecoming.

She heard a key in the door, and ran to pull it open. And there was County Carlow, all dressed up to meet her in the charcoal suit she liked, with the blue Oxford shirt that matched his eyes. He came bearing a teddy bear, red roses and a grin as goofy as her own. Her stomach flipped and she met him with a flying tackle hug.

Jess Angell might have been empowered to the hilt and with plenty to spare, but there was something awfully _good_ about being wordlessly grabbed and kissed by a man who wasn't going to wait another second for it. She slid her palms up his chest and flicked her tongue between his teeth till he groaned and kissed her into a breathless puddle. _Mm, yeah...like that._ She stroked her thumb behind his ear and played her nails over the back of his neck, and felt a shudder travel down his spine.

"Wow," he said foggily. "Hi. C'n I go out and come in again, if you're gonna do that?"

"No way, mister. You're staying right here."

She slid the knot of his tie downwards and planted a row of featherlight nips under his jawline. He growled, kicked the door closed, and half-carried her towards the couch.

"I was right behind the Indian family, and the two German kids," she said, some minutes and several more welcoming kisses later, as they sprawled comfortably together. Don remembered them, and they both agreed that there were two senior couples travelling together, right after her.

"I _couldn't_ have missed you. We were both right there." he insisted.

Knowing how his bulldog mind worked, she thought it likely he'd be chewing on this for days. "Never mind. We're here now." she said. "And thank you for the roses. And the teddy bear! He's charming. I haven't had one since I was seven."

"I saw him in the shop, and I had to get him for you," he admitted, a little bashfully, into her neck. "Dunno why. Just seemed the thing to do. I was looking forward to it. Meeting you there. I never met a girlfriend at the airport before."

"Aw, and you were trying to make everything perfect. But here we are. And we have some serious catching up to do, _mon p'tit._."

His answering squeeze told her he understood her very well. They had a great deal of talking to do, about the past week and the years ahead.

But that would have to wait until after Jess' meeting with Lt. Sythe and Internal Affairs in the morning, regarding her part in the Greek Embassy doings.

Jess felt her stomach clench all over again, and sighed, warmth and passion chilling rapidly.

She'd known from the beginning that it was unwise to play Ishmael to Stella's Ahab. It was a bit of excitement, a chance to hit back directly at corruption. And she'd had a half-formed notion that she could keep an eye on Stella, whose trust and friendship she valued very much, and haul her back from the brink if things became too dangerous. She hadn't reckoned on becoming so caught up herself that things like entrapping an Embassy official with diplomatic immunity would seem like a good idea.

Once Mac and Stella had returned from their side-jaunt to Greece, a quiet form of bureaucratic hell had broken loose. Mac, true to his Catholic roots, convinced Stella that the only way she'd be able to get past the whole thing without worrying about it her whole career, was to approach IA directly and make a full confession. Decidedly not Catholic, but pragmatic nonetheless, Stella had agreed, knowing that it would all come out one day, and she'd rather it be on her terms.

Mac did his best to absorb much of the impact, explaining that Detectives Bonasera and Angell, using a minimum of resources and some great intellegence-work, had put an end to an international smuggling operation and had repatriated a number of ancient artifacts to Greece. He pointed out their exemplary records, carefully explaining each of Stella's four complaints as being from upset civilians who didn't get that "cops are there to save their asses, not kiss 'em."

IA ignored most of this, except for the parts where Stella not only neglected to remove herself from a personal case, but disobeyed Mac's direct order, got a junior detective involved, and then placed an anomymous call to report a dead body with diplomatic ties.

Pending IA's interview with Detective Angell, Stella was told to sit at her desk and touch nothing, do nothing, say nothing, until they were ready to speak with her again. Which didn't prevent the CSI's from holding regular coffee klatches and pizza lunches in her office, for the next couple of days, talking of anything except Greece.

Sythe had called her in Ottawa. She sat on her brother Dominic's balcony, trying to keep her responses from revealing too much. Dom's clucking-hen response to her career didn't need any fuel.

"Angell, it's all out in the open," Sythe had said. "Listen, it's going to take me until tomorrow night to track you down, got it? And I need you repeat the following: 'I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can.' "

"You're telling me to stay away until my actual return date?"

"I am absolutely not telling you anything of the sort, nor am I telling you to be honest but brief with IA, and let your superiors and your record speak for you as much as possible. IA gave you a bad round before, and I'm in the mood for a boxing match. Let them cool off a little before you show your face."

"Uh, yes, sir."

"I am also under no circumstances telling you to try to enjoy the rest of your trip, because there isn't anything here that can't wait forty-eight hours. Would you believe, the Greek Embassy even asked us to 'be thorough' - that's code for drag our feet a little while they sort out their side."

"Yes, sir."

"And I want to hear the whole thing from start to finish before you talk to IA. Damn shame they offed each other, because otherwise it sounds like a great ride. Of course you should have told me. I'd have helped. Tell me Flack wasn't in on it."

"He wasn't. I didn't tell him anything until three days ago."

"Good. And?"

"And I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can. Sir."

"Excellent. See you in my office, first thing Monday morning."

 

Back in her own apartment, Don was determined to distract her from all of this. God help him if the boys ever found out how damned cute he could be. She certainly wasn't going to share it. Neither of them would ever hear the end of it. She was already expecting to be razzed about Don turning into a snapping turtle in her absence.

"What you feel like doing?" he asked, mid-nuzzle, bringing her attention back to the present.

"I'm pretty low on Maslow's hierarchy today. Just the basics. Shower, you, lunch, nap."

"In that order?"

"More or less. We could save time and combine the first two. Any objections?"

He raised his head and gave her a wonderfully dirty smirk. "Babe, I wouldn't exactly call this an _objection_."

It wasn't until the next morning that they remembered to test their cellphones. Whatever had caused the connection problem seemed to have resolved itself, and all of the messages Jess had left for him had been delivered sometime during the night.

And then, in the busy week that followed, Jess' strange homecoming faded from memory.

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"It could have been a lot worse, Stella."

"I know."

Stella crossed her arms and turned to stare out of the window of Mac's office. She, more than anyone, knew how many strings Mac had been pulling and whose swords he'd been crossing. And they both knew that he'd gone far beyond the call of team loyalty or even friendship. He'd spent a good deal of accumulated goodwill with the command rank, trying to help her.

"It's only a week," she said lightly. "Suspension and an official letter I can handle. Honestly, I was expecting worse."

"We can't lose you." Mac said, as if it explained everything. "We need you here."

_Back to his old Marine self,_ she thought. No more "because I care" and "because I'm your friend".

"Mac, I know what you did, on my behalf," she reminded him. "You gotta know, if our positions were reversed, I'd do the same for you. Because I do care."

He looked her in the eye for the first time all morning, and the ghost of a smile appeared. "If our positons were reversed, chances are that certain people I've pissed off in my time would stop at very little to get rid of me, and discredit anyone who defended me. My biggest concern isn't the suspension, or even that you went against an order. It's what happens twenty years from now, when you're up for Chief Inspector, and the vetting turns up this whole escapade."

"Will it matter, twenty years from now?"

"Everything matters when you're up for a powerful job."

She eyed him sidelong. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Mac."

He sighed and kicked back from his desk, tilting his chair back. "You'll find out anyway when Sinclair calls you in to follow-up. You were about to be considered for a promotion, before this whole Greek drama happened."

"What? You're the only one senior to me in the department. You going somewhere?"

"No. There's talk of a new Urban Narco Task Force starting up, a two-year pilot project between CSU and Narco. It's time to re-up the drug signature database for the heroin and coke coming in from South America and the Middle East, to bring it in line with current technology. And this time they want to track its movements from the entry points onto the street. It's going to take some fancy footwork with the international shipping companies and diplomatic travellers. They need someone with Major Case management experience, who can also manage the lab techs and do some media work. Your name was on the list, along with a handful of senior CSI's from the B and D Watches."

"Was?"

"Was."

"I see."

"I'd rather you heard it from me than Sinclair."

"I appreciate that," she said quietly. "Jobs come and go. Don't worry about me; I've got a lot more work to do around here before I think about looking around for the next thing. What about Angell? She was only doing what I asked her to do, and she did raise concerns."

"But not with Sythe, and not with me. It was pretty clear that you did your best to cover for her, but whatever she did was her own decision. She'll get some sort of discipline. I don't know what. She's still in her meeting."

"I'll talk to her after," Stella said. She took a breath and looked him in the eye. "So, Mac, can I make you dinner sometime next week? God knows I've got time."

He regarded her contemplatively. _Just trying to say thanks,_ she telegraphed. _That's all._

"I won't make Greek," she promised.

He laughed shortly and shook his head in surrender. "Just tell me what wine to bring," he said.

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"Two days," Jess said hollowly. "My father is going to skin me alive. This isn't exactly something I can defend."

Don made a comforting sound into his phone. He was sitting in an unmarked cruiser, parked among a thicket of trees on a ridge above the Hudson, with a pair of military micro-binoculars trained on the back of a riverside warehouse. Two hours and seventeen minutes, and no movements from the people-smugglers they were collecting evidence against, or from anyone else. Jess' call was a welcome interlude, even if she was finding it hard to keep it together. "Betcha he's had worse himself."

"Not the point. If I'm gonna be a cop at all, I'm supposed to be a better cop than he _and_ my grandfather were. I remember how he talked about one of his guys who earned himself a suspension. He went on and on about how any good cop should know how to control himself better than to get a black mark. Or to ask for assistance from a super, if they were in over their head. Which is what he's going to tell me."

"He probably will, and then you can ask him to find you a senior cop without a single mark on their jacket. Guaranteed, it's only the ones who never pushed the envelope or did anything but hold back and kiss ass their whole careers. I sure as hell lost my temper once or twice, made a bad call now and then. You ever notice it's the ones with plenty of war-stories that get assigned to take on the real challenges? Look at Sythe. He was the Attitude Boy of Narco, and now he's heading up Homicide. And some of the lines he crossed are now written into policy. Because they worked. Hell, _Danny's_ gonna start teaching Evidence Preservation at the Academy next year. 'Cause of all the stuff he made up as he went along."

"You are, without doubt, an awesome boyfriend," Jess told him. "But this is badge-to-badge, okay? I know I messed up. Even if I did have good intentions. The last thing I needed was to be hauled in front of an IA board again. It's only been three months since the last time. As they did not neglect to point out."

"Okay, so you messed up. This is me as a Detective. As a friend, sure, you wanted to help Stella, but as a cop, what steps should you have taken?"

She took a breath, and he could see her pulling herself up straight, as if she was standing in front of Sythe's desk about to make her report. "Tried to get Stella to give me her notes and back off, for one. Mac ordered her to stand down, and she was way too invested. I'd still have pushed for a sting. It was the only way to get to them. Not sure I'd have advocated getting a known felon to help make decoys, but we've used the expertise of forgers before. Try to sort out some other way to get Kolovos on board the freighter. And sure as hell call in Diakos' body properly. His death and Kolovos escaping was on the Greeks, not us. Papakota waited forty years to get his revenge on a government he blamed for stealing his family's land, and Kolovos managed to get off-island before anyone even knew."

"And that," said Don, "is what you tell your father. And that is what you put in a letter to IA, _before_ they ask you for it. What you're being tagged for is a break in command discipline, that's all - Stella's gotta take the brunt of the fallout on this one. So you write out how the operation could've been made legit, and if it's any good, someone will pull it out and use it someday, and you'll look like you were thinking two steps ahead. That's exactly what I'd have done, if Stella came to me."

"Which is why she didn't. She wanted to deal with it herself. From what I gather, that's always been her blind spot. You'd have told her to back off and trust Mac to make the connections."

"Pretty sure they'll be hashin' that one out between them."

"No doubt."

"So, did they give you a specific two days?"

"Any two consecutive days next week. At least I handed off all my cases before I left. I've got a ton of e-mails and phone calls to return, but other than that, my desk is still pretty clear."

"Coulda been a lot worse," Don said, unknowingly echoing Mac. "I thought Stella'd get more than a week, actually. I think IA likes you guys better than they let on."

"They're certainly getting to know me. Think maybe I should transfer there, instead of Crim Intel?"

"Nah, you can't hold a frown without crackin'. Oh, hey, I got action on the waterfront here. About damn time."

He switched binoculars for Nikon DSLR, and began clicking away, capturing the overall scene, and then zooming in on faces, as well as he could from his distant perch. It occured to him that a satellite in earth-orbit would likely get better shots than he could with the camera, but until the department ponied up for military-grade equipment, he'd have to make do.

"Migrant workers and handlers?" Jess asked.

"Fuck yeah. This has federal warrant written all over it. That's a schoolbus of smuggled Chinese if I ever saw one. And that's a guard dog. Nasty mother, too. We'll need Animal Control. And medics, to check everyone out. Can you start the paper, and give Judge Finlayson a heads up? She's all over this file. I'll e-mail these photos to her by the time you get to the courthouse."

"I'm on it."

He was flipping her a few free Brownie points with the Judge, she knew, but she'd let him get away with it.

Funny, the ways cops showed their love.

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"He's _what_?" Mac asked, in genuine confusion. "You sure about that? Why didn't we know about this?"

Sythe, leaning against the door of Mac's office with crossed arms, shook his head. "Connor only decided in the middle of the night. He talked to his lawyer, and then called his girlfriend to bring him a suit and his shaving kit. Spent the night writing his testimony, and doesn't want to talk to or even see his father."

"What the hell is Robert Dunbrook playing at?" asked Mac, not for the first time. "You think Connor's being paid, or is paying someone? In money or testimony? His own father, maybe?"

"I spoke to the officers on duty. They know a jailhouse revelation when they see it. I'm sure the father's aware of it by now, but unless it was planned before Connor's arrest, I don't think Robert had any role in Connor's decision. Connor hasn't seen or spoken to anyone but his lawyer and his girlfriend since his arrest. Not even his father's dream team. Now we know why. Connor's never stood up to his old man before, but he just wasn't prepared to go through a murder trial for something he didn't do. Not if he knows what really happened."

"This damned family. Just when I think I have them figured out. I'm sure there's money at the bottom of this, and not just Ann Steele's clean-up fees. If Dunbrook thinks his bailing out the department is going to keep him or his boy out of reach of the law, they're about to learn differently. Keep me in the loop with the Grand Jury this morning, will you?"

"Of course. Carmody and Sig are escorting him and a pile of lawyers there right now."

"Not Flack? He's been in on this thing since the beginning."

"He's out talking to an informant of his. And Angell's riding out her suspension today and tomorrow. It's just babysitting. But's it's a high-profile case. The young fellas deserve a piece of it."

"Let's hope not _too_ big a piece. The less excitement the better. Between Stella, Jess and Connor Dunbrook, we've got enough to deal with. Last thing we need is Dunbrook selling papers off our troubles."

So it came to pass that Flack and Terrence were in the middle of a conversation about a black Escalade rumoured to be all-over bullet-proofed, and Jess was working out the sting of her father's remarks at the gym, when the Tillery Diner exploded in a hail of glass shards and bullets.

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"They comin' in from all over," said Lt. Dawkins. "Washington State, New Mexico...more'n a thousand Mounties, and the same from overseas. This ain't no Honour Guard. It's a damn rock festival, only the stars are gonna be appearin' in flag-draped coffins. I hear couple thousand folks applied for vendor tags for the day. Food stalls, ball-caps and sunglasses, all sorts of police souvenirs n' crap..."

"This is exactly the sort of dilemma that people like Dunbrook make their millions off of," Sythe replied darkly. "It's sickening that we lost two of our best men, but it's going to send paper sales through the roof - and police approval ratings, on both sides of the House. Meanwhile, Carmody's wife is in hysterics because Carmody hated, absolutely hated any kind of fanfare, and Sigurdson's family are thinking up interesting ways to sue the department for not doing more to protect him. How the hell do you protect an officer from things we can't possibly predict? That's why cops exist in the first place. I get that they're grieving, but Christ Almighty..."

"I wouldn't say that too loud," Dawkins observed. "Stick to the everyday-hero line, I would, if I was you."

"Don't we always? Of course I want to help them. I liked Sig and Carmody. I know their families. I miss them. But you can't...it's what we _do_, and their families know that. They've refused Victims Services - so far - and the Widows and Childrens' Foundation has barely had a chance to make contact with them."

"They're angry," Dawkins said mildly. "They wanna know why. They gotta put blame somewheres. Wouldn't you, if it was your kids?"

Sythe raised his hands, about to retort, but let them drop back on his desk, helplessly. "Maybe that's why I don't have any," he replied. "No parent should have to go through that. It's why I remustered as a cop, after the Golan Heights. The world isn't safe. It never was. It's only humans who think it's _supposed_ to be - because people like you and me work like hell in the background to make them think so. I'm not like you, Brad. I can't adopt every young cop I work with. But what I'm good at is keeping people safe, and I feel like shit 'cause I dropped the ball. On two guys I've known since they left Academy."

"There's no way on earth anyone coulda- "

"I know that. I _know_ that. Makes no difference. Dammit, if Connor had only decided to testify just a day later. Flack would've heard about the Escalade in time to put out a BOLO on it, and he probably would've made a good guess who the target was. But there's no way to know."

"No. There ain't. You gonna recommend any policy changes? Carmody and Sig had the trainin' and equipment for just about anythin' but a high-level assault. What else can city cops do?"

"Damned if I know. What sort of policy do you write on ambushes in a civilian, open space, with military-grade equipment? That's out of the Iraq theatre playbook, not ours. Do we make sure nobody leaves the office without Type III anti-rifle kevlar all over, and a gas mask, and goes straight into an armoured Humvee? I don't think New Yorkers want to see that. They sure as hell won't pay for it. There's just no way we could've anticipated a sulky-ass white-collar security tech would get kidnapped during the first hour he was out of jail."

"Mac Taylor said as how they had the police band tuned up, and were ready to tag whoever on their list of targets came up first. That it was this kid Cade who did the plannin', after he was kicked out of the Army. Is Cade talkin'?"

"Nope. He won't be talking much for a while. Cracked skull."

"Eh? The hell your boys do?"

"Simon Cade did it himself. Carmody shot him in the shoulder, at the diner, so he was bleeding pretty bad already. When they tracked the group to the barracks, Flack got him in the back of the leg, on the run. Cade tried to kill himself right there. Flack managed to disarm him, but then Cade tried to bash his brains out on the window-frame of the Avalanche, on the way in. Nearly did, too. He'll get patched up, and some lawyer will argue him off of Death Row on the grounds that he was obviously nuts to begin with, and is now brain-damaged. And they'll win."

"God help us."

"Taylor and Sinclair are actually working together on a memo to the Mayor to lift the moratorium on state executions. They're amping each other up like...well, like a pair of old Marines who've just found a war to fight instead of each other."

"Oh, Lawd. And the old man himself?"

"Oh, Dunbrook's never been more popular. You saw yesterday's headlines? "Heroes in uniform", "Guardian Angels of our Streets", that sort of thing? The other rags are stomping all over him, claiming that he basically bought the cops, or that he must've known his son would be kidnapped, and made sure he took out insurance, that sort of crap. Some are saying Dunbrook planned it to distract from his court case and win sympathy."

"You think he did?"

"I think Robert Dunbrook's counting on the fact that people will only remember that he loves the NYPD for saving his son, and will forget that two New York police officers died in the process. So yeah, it's going to be a rock festival out there tomorrow, but I don't mind. Sig and Carmody deserve it, and it's good for morale. Nobody's going to forget that two of our men went down trying to keep the city safe."

"And the optics don't hurt a bit."

"No," Sythe agreed. "They don't. You better believe there's gonna be YouTube clips of police from all over the world coming to pay their respects, even if I have to put 'em there myself."

 

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"So much for family dinner out," Jess sighed. "But maybe this is better, in a depressing sort of way. The dads get to meet at a massive police event. Totally within their arena. And the moms will have dozens of younger police spouses to fuss over. They'll be fine."

"First time I've seen you in uniform. In person, anyway." Flack said, distracted by the sight of her expertly flipping and knotting her tie. Her neatly pressed collar and the coiled knot of hair at her nape accentuated the graceful column of her throat, and he resisted the urge to lean over and nibble. A mark on her pale skin would not earn him any points, especially today, which was a pity: Jess in regs was entirely appealing, from duty cap to highly polished boots. Maybe later on...

"It suits you. Really, I mean. Not just the whole uniform...thing."

She slid him an amused glance.

"Had it tailored." she told him, in a stage whisper. She went on to explain: "Most of the girls have a dress uniform altered to fit properly, for ceremonial events. What time are we meeting the dads?"

"Twelve-thirty, at the muster station. They're with the retired officers up front, so they'll start about a half hour before we do. My mom's gonna be at the Civic Center a bit early, setting up for the reception, so we can pick yours up on the way and introduce them there. Tie okay?"

He knew his tie, bar and insignia were perfectly straight, but she fiddled with it anyway. Like Jess, he wore his shield tucked into the breast pocket of his duty jacket, with a black mourning band wrapped around it. She smoothed a tiny crease out of his shirt and leaned into him. There was something terribly poignant about that small moment, between comforting each other over the loss of two friends, and the casual affection in her deft movements. He took her hands in his, and she tilted her head, regarding him seriously.

"What?" he asked.

"You look good in Dress Order," she told him. A brief smile touched his face, and she looked more closely at him. "You doing okay?"

"Rough day," he said huskily, and cleared his throat. "Carmody, Sig, my parents meeting yours...If there had to be a day like this, Jess, I'm glad you're here."

She blinked hurriedly and swallowed. "It'll be fine," she told him. "It's not like we've been trying to keep them apart. We've been trying to fix a date to get them all together for ages. They understand cop schedules. You know my folks adore you."

"It's not yours I'm worried about."

It wouldn't take much to send Don Flack Sr. into a maudlin downward spiral, especially if he was half-tanked before the parade even started. Between his father's pride in his own past policing career, and the unvoiced truths of a difficult family life, the old man might well find the sight of a police funeral and a son in uniform shattering to his composure. He might retreat into cold, stony silence, or he might turn barstool raconteur, and become the life of the party until Mary made their farewells and pulled him away.

"Mm. You think your dad'll be coasting?"

"I wish I knew. Mom said she didn't see him drinking, when I talked to her this morning. But that doesn't mean a whole lot."

"We'll deal with it when we see him. My guess is, he'll be better today than he's been in ages. He'll remember who he was. Who he is."

"Maybe so. I hope so. More'n twenty thousand turning out today," Flack said, awed. "That's what gets me in the gut. Giving up holidays, leaving their families, coming across the country, or farther than that, on their own dime, to march in this thing. 'Cause of Carmody and that crazy kid Sig."

" 'Cause of every one of us who ever went down, and never got more than a line in a community newspaper," Jess reminded him. "And to remind us we're not alone out there."

He squeezed her hands briefly, and, looking up, he saw them in the mirror over the dresser, two footsoldiers in a neverending war against crime and opression. No, they weren't alone out there. Least of all the two of them. They invested a lot in making sure that connection stayed strong, in among their busy days and nights. Whatever else went on, they had each other to come home to, a place of safety to rest and re-focus.

He wondered how they'd feel, watching a child of theirs go through the internal decision process and rigorous training of becoming a police officer, and putting on the same uniform. Maybe even taking on his or Jess' badge number, as Jess had done.

It was an incredibly exciting thought. It had occurred to him before, as a half-formed fancy, but today it hit him hard. Would they both be alive to see a child of theirs graduate high school, let alone Academy? Just one of them? Or neither?

How long could they go through every day, not knowing what random twist of fate might wrench them apart? And what would they have of each other to hold onto?

It was too easy, and too comforting, to keep telling each other there was no need to rush a wedding. They talked frequently about what they hoped for in a marriage, and the patterns they wanted _not_ to fall into. It was a forgone conclusion that they'd make it all happen, but they hadn't even been together a year.

It was a day to focus on Carmody and Sig, and to support their families, he reminded himself. Otherwise, he thought, he'd have asked her right there and then to just marry him and work out the practical details as they went. On a day like this, with mortality and life choices in high relief, pragmatism took a back seat to plangent human truths.

However many days he had left, he wanted to be with Jess at the end of them.

His cellphone rang, which was probably for the best. He kissed her again and went to retrieve it.

"Flack. Yes, sir. Yeah, we're heading out soon...Yeah? Hell yeah, count me in. Hang on." he covered the phone, and said to Jess: "It's Sythe. He's planning a thing at Harper's tonight, just for Homicide Squad. Kind of a wake. Harper's offered to close just for us. You wanna go?" Jess nodded vigorously, on her way to the kitchen, and he went back to his call. "Yeah, we'll be there, sir. See you at the parade."

"I'm making a thermos of tea to take with," called Jess. "You want anything?"

"No, I'm good. Thought you were strictly coffee in the morning."

"It's this herbal stuff, for stress," she called back. "Sam introduced me to it. Chamomile, St. John's Wort, peppermint...tastes like weeds, but it works. Helped take the edge of being suspended, that's for sure. You talked to Sam? About all this?"

Sam's path to sobriety had been mainly steady, give or take a couple of predictable tumbles off the wagon. But the reminder that Don faced the same daily hazards as Sig and Carmody would almost certainly give her a setback. He was still the only family member she communicated with.

"Yeah, we talked," he assured her. "She's okay. She asked if I thought she should come to the reception, try to connect with Mom and Dad again. We decided it wasn't the day for it. Did you know Grady called her up the minute after the shooting hit the news? He knew she'd want to talk to someone non-Flack and non-cop. Sounds like they've been hangin' out a fair bit. My club-rat sister is turning into a bookstore nerd who has coffee with her priest buddy. And actually talks to him."

"_That's_ interesting."

"Yeah. She doesn't let many people in."

"Yeah, but it's Grady. He's solid as a rock."

"And she knows you're happy about him being in her life," Jess pointed out, shrugging her knapsack over one shoulder. "She's working hard to impress you, you know. It's a big part of what's keeping her going."

"She's succeeding."

"You should tell her."

"I will. You ready?"

She leaned over and planted a rather inspiring kiss on his mouth.

"Let's go."

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Flack Sr., sober as a newly-appointed judge and as good-tempered as a bear awoken in winter, seemed to come to life upon meeting Cliff Angell. Much of this was Cliff's doing, based on numerous conversations over the past few months with his daughter and his more-or-less adopted son.

"Detective Sergeant Flack. Good to finally meet you," Cliff said heartily, in response to Don's introduction, as though he'd heard nothing but tales of honour and bravery about the man. He'd made it clear to Jess and Don that if ever he, a fellow retired cop, was in a position to speak candidly with Don's old man about the support available to alcoholic ex-cops and their families, he was game. But they were just meeting. Trust would take a long time, if it ever came.

Flack Sr. returned his handshake, and said gruffly: "And you, sir. That's one bright gel you got. She's welcome at our house anytime, for sure."

Cliff grinned and slewed his eyes at his daughter, who actually blushed under her uniform cap. He refrained from pointing out that Flack Sr. hadn't made his _own_ daughter welcome in years. He also decided not to mention the fact that by now, Don was a regular at the Angell's all-afternoon Sunday lunches for family and friends, whether or not Jess was with him. And that even Samantha had come along with the kids once or twice, shy as a colt around parental types, and with the predictable anxiety of the recently sober, but a real delight once she settled in. Don's father was a proud man, and wouldn't take kindly to the implication that the Angells were far more functional and welcoming than the Flacks. Especially since it was obvious that they were.

"I think Chérie's already sorting out the family silver for those kids," he said, when the charming young pair had made their farewells and gone to form ranks with their unit. "She really likes that boy of yours. Pity she isn't here to meet you, but she'll be at the reception later."

"My wife - our Mary - had a very nice card from her on her birthday," Flack said. "I look forward to meeting her. French-Canadian, is she not?"

"Yep. Forty-five years of marriage and I still can't keep up when she tells me off _en français_. Just as well, maybe. By the time the kids translate for me, it's all over."

Flack grinned appreciatively at this, right up to his blue eyes, and suddenly looked a lot like his middle child. Cliff had a flash of the charismatic leader-of-men he'd heard tales about since arriving at the NYPD.

They stood side by side, Flack neatly fitted into his old uniform, and Cliff, considerably larger of girth than in days of old, in navy trousers, white dress shirt and his uniform jacket and cap. Looking around, there seemed to be a visible demarcation line between those who had relaxed into retirement, and those who had kept their police physiques. Cliff was secretly pleased that Flack could chalk himself a mark of superiority. It gave Cliff a bit of a psychological advantage, so as not to appear as any kind of competitor, but just a fellow dad and retiree.

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Cliff murmured, looking over the sea of people in the square, various blocks of uniforms following barked commands as they lined up in marching order. "How'd us old warhorses get so damned lucky? How many of these kids will get to retire?"

"Mine nearly didn't," Flack said. "I'm thankful every day the boy pulled through. Knowing he's keeping the job going, it's like I left the best part of me right back there in the precinct. Maybe one day he'll say the same."

Cliff nodded. Days like these brought up memory and regret in equal measure for everyone, for the most part regarded as personal confessions, rather than an invitation to talk.

It was then he glanced down and saw the tremor in Flack's hands, and felt a surge of pity. He almost wanted to suggest that they fall out for a quick dram before the parade, to fortify themselves. Many of the old gang would have a flask on them. But Flack apparently was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn't stop at one, and he was too proud to do any dishonour to his badge or his family on a day like this. He'd suffer through the day, and probably be unreachable through a whiskey fog for the rest of the weekend.

_One day I'll tell him how much my daughter taught me, when I finally let her grow up,_ he promised himself. He was surprised at how quickly he'd extended his affection and concern for Flack Junior to his father - and how readily his scheming managerial mind was turning the problem over, seeking the right path to take. But then, he reasoned, he treated all his friends and family as if they were his squad, and naturally sought to strengthen the weak points and play up the strong ones, for the betterment of the whole.

"Guess we both did something right," he said mildly, "somewhere along the way. Makes you want to hold 'em a little tighter, doesn't it? You just never know."

Donald Flack didn't reply. Cliff didn't expect him to. Seeds need time to take root.

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"We're doing this? Really?"

Jess' smile threatened to outshine the summer evening sun as she nodded, even though the tears she'd spent the day holding back were now tumbling down her cheeks onto her uniform blouse. She cupped his face tenderly in her hands, and kissed him over and over.

"_Yes._ Oh, my God, yes. Isn't this crazy, to get all...look at me, I'm a complete basket-case! It's not like we didn't know - but to actually do it - and _today_..."

Don, nearly in the same state, laughed and rambled happily on: "Trust you to upstage me! I was _this_ close to just asking you. Right in the middle of the parade and everything. But this is perfect. I swear, the look on my mom's face...she thought we were messing with her head. And today makes sense, after all. It _is_ sort of about remembering Carmody and Sig."

"It totally is. What a thing to remember them by. Betcha we're not the only ones who decided to make it official today. It's definitely a heads-up not to wait for 'someday.' "

"Well, we sure as hell won't be getting the award for Most Unexpected," said Don. "So much for turning up at a scene with wedding bands and seeing who notices. They're gonna know as soon as they see your face, babe."

She laughed and kissed him again. "_My_ face! Check the mirror, babe. C'mon. Let's go. People are waiting."

They stared at one another for a moment, still in shock, took a deep breath, and turned to get out of the car.

Together they went into Harper's to meet the remaining members of the Murder Squad, along with a good number of representatives from the Crime Lab. There was no need to flash their badges. Frank Harper himself unlatched the door for them, recognizing them instantly, and Don shook his hand.

"This is good of you, man," he told the proprietor. "I know Friday's your busy night."

"Least I can do for you guys," Frank said, as he waved them inside.

The sight of the two of them in uniform and hand in hand was enough of a rarity that every eye in the place fixed upon them as they passed. They made a token attempt to rein in their matching grins, but failed completely, as they approached their close friends at their usual table in the back.

Mouse glanced up and a great smile spread over her pixieish face. Lindsay eyes widened, and she poked Danny, who stopped fidgeting in his uniform blues and blinked as suspicion turned to delighted comprehension.

Don wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her an affirmative squeeze.

"Guys - " she began, "We don't want this to take away from our boys, but...guess what?"

Don, who didn't _do_ overt displays in front of the team, pulled off his cap, leaned down and kissed her thoroughly. The table erupted. Stella shrieked happily, and even Sythe smacked the table and hollered with everyone else.

Emerging, Jess stood flushed and giggling, shy under so much scrutiny, and caught sight of Adam and Hawkes bumping fists. Someone must have had a pool running on them, and hadn't yet learned never, ever to bet against those two.

"So, how'd it happen?" Danny asked. "This just went down today?"

"Couple hours ago, at the memorial reception," Don told him, as they sat down across from the Messers. "Weird, I know, but what else is new?"

"Bunch of the police wives were talking about how long they'd been married to cops, and it turned into a sort of competition," Jess explained, "And Mary asked us when we were going to start the clock and, by the way, stop living in sin. As a joke."

Don picked up the thread: "So I say, 'But Mom, we have our own apartments, we're only visiting in sin.' My mom's totally cracking up - and Jess just goes, 'Well, my lease runs out in September, so I guess that'll do.' And I say, 'Yeah, September sounds good. We better pin down leave dates.' And that was it. Our mothers were absolutely gobsmacked. They couldn't tell if we were serious."

"And then we bust out crying and they figured out it was for real."

"_You_ bust out crying, I didn't."

"You _did_."

"Okay, a bit."

"Oh, shit, now I'm starting again..."

"Oh, my God, you guys," Danny muttered, "I thought Linds and I were gooshy."

They were spared having to answer this by Frank Harper, who hadn't made a name for himself as the cops' favoured bar host by sheer luck. He appeared with a bottle of champagne, which he displayed over his arm with a comical debonair flourish for Don to examine.

"Gonna be a lot of toasts tonight," he said, "But you guys get first call."

 

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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:

 

"_Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?_"  
\- Why didn't you bring your fella?

"_Trop de travail...Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!_"  
\- Too much work. But I hope you meet him soon. Forget my brothers - I wouldn't dare marry someone _you_ didn't approve of!"

"_Je sauverai le prix d'avion,_"  
\- I'll save up the plane fare.

"_Mon p'tit_"  
\- Short for "Mon petit": literally "My little", but meaning "Beloved" or "Little one"

_One more chapter to follow for each Reality...visit soon!_


	8. Calling All Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the final installment in this tale. Flack burns his wings and hits the ground. And gets up again, with a little help from his friends.

\---------------------------------  
Chapter Six  
Calling All Angels  
\---------------------------------

_...bring on the axiomatic_  
round sound midnight drumroll fury-ocity  
velocity  
squeeze beat angel wings  
'til they sing sweet  
drink the bebop sax  
the wing-drip wax  
of them that flew too close to the sun  
fillin' holy souls and tongues  
with the ever-changin'  
always in the now... 

\- T.Paul Ste.-Marie, "Invocation"

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__  
**The sixth night.**  


 

_"No, man, don't do it, I don't wanna die here."_

_"You're gonna."_

_He pulled the trigger. Cade's face disappeared in a pash of splintered bone and strawberry-jam brains, but his mouth still moved. _

_"Help me," said the mouth._

_He looked at his gun, and the tiny LED's down the grip were flashing red._

_"Help me," said the mouth, high and fast._

Flack sat bolt upright, his face and chest clammy with sweat, his heart thumping. "Shit." He scrubbed at his face and looked bleakly around his bedroom, which had not changed since the last time he saw it two hours ago. And two hours before that.

He padded to the kitchen and squinted into the fridge, shivering as the cold touched his skin. Ignoring his mother's voice telling him to try hot milk - he didn't remember the last time he'd bought any, and certainly didn't trust whatever was in the fridge - he picked up the bottle of vodka on the counter and poured a healthy measure into a mug. He thought about adding orange juice, and shook his head. No point dressing it up.

He was, however, not so far gone as to curl up in bed drinking alone, so he took the bottle and the mug into the living room, and clicked on the TV, feeling ridiculously like an outtake from _The Wall_.

The CNN overnight news ticker scrolled by his unseeing eyes. 

_Mother, will they tear your little boy apart?_ he singsonged grimly to himself, in his head. 

At least, he hoped it was in his head.

* * * * *

And in between the nights, the days wove into one another in a hazy palimpsest of movement, occasionally pierced through with too-bright stabs of light, like an old fashioned tin lantern, sharp-edged glowing reminders of the world beyond his head.

"Flack, Grady here. Fourth message. Call me, willye. Don't matter what time."

"I'm here, Grady."

"Sure you are. Where's here?"

"Someplace in hell."

"I gathered that much. Am I too soon?"

"No. No, but I'm...I'm nowhere near talkin'. Not yet."

"Then I'll wait a while longer. But not too long, mind, or I'm tellin' your Ma."

"I don't doubt it. Grady, thanks. I'm sorry, I'm just..."

"No apology needed. Will you at least ring your sister? She's that worried about you, and you know that's not good for her."

"I will."

"Honour bright?"

It took Flack a second too long to remember the old Irishism for, _You promise?_ and to remind himself that Grady had never, and would never, judge him.

"Honour bright."

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"Hey, Donnie, I know you're not...I just thought, maybe you wanna come to a meeting with me? I know it's not like you're, y'know...I thought, just to get outta your head and remember we're all going through shit together. And that you don't gotta do it all by yourself."

"I ain't doing that bad, kid." _ Not too far off, though, Sammy. _"But I'll come with you if you want company."

"No, no...I'm okay. I got friends there now. It's cool. You want to maybe get lunch, though?"

"Yeah, soon, okay?"

"Okay."

They hung up. Flack recognized the twofold note of relief in his sister's voice, that not only did he and Sam understand one another's habits and could talk about them, but that he would not be intruding on the place of fragile safety she had created. He mentally raised a thumb to her. She was tougher than he was, to sit among strangers and reveal the most sensitive of her frayed nerves to them, to let them in deep enough to call them her friends. 

He knew there were any number of AA meetings he could attend, some specifically for cops, but that in itself seemed to deflate any interest. Alcoholism wasn't his problem, and until this last week, he'd pretty much stopped reaching for the bottle out of habit, but this was special circumstances. This was mental pain relief of a legal form, and he didn't intend to let it go on for long. He'd ease up soon, he told himself. Just as soon as he could take a deep breath without wincing at the kick in his gut whenever he remembered.

No, this wasn't about falling into a bottle. It was about Jess, and what they had: unique, sacred, and not to be nodded over by well-meaning fellow cops and trained shrinks.

Pride may have been the first of all sins, and a major obstacle to his seeking out any help, Flack knew, but at least he still had some.

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It was Stella who kicked his bony ass into getting out of the apartment.

She came by every few days with takeout, and caught him up on cases and office gossip, and let him ramble about Jess. If she noticed the dried-up takeout trays from her last visit, barely picked over, she simply swept them into her deli takeout bag along with the trash from whatever lunch she had brought, not mentioning how little he had eaten between her visits. In Stella's company, he could eat a few bites without choking, and even savour the garlicky, tangy taste of a meatball sub now and then.

In time, with Stella keeping up a running commentary of thoroughly normal cop-talk, he was able to start sorting through Jess' belongings that she kept at his place, and was even able to cry now and then. Stella didn't pretend not to see his tears, nor did she offer pity. She simply gathered him in her strong arms and pressed him against her shoulder, comrade-to-comrade, and let him rest for a minute or two. He was caught between the stinging raw relief of it, and the voice of self-reproach that told him that a murderer had no right, no right at all to weep.

He never knew whether she called in advance of her visits to give him a chance to tidy up a little and hide the bottles, or just to check on his state of mind, but he was grateful. If Stella knew just what a stew he'd fallen into, she'd have bullied him into...something tiresomely healthy and active and distracting, after which he'd come back to his solitary apartment, where Jess wasn't, where Jess and their baby weren't, and it would all start over.

On her fourth visit, two weeks in, she'd realized that he hadn't been to Jess' apartment yet, and had not, in fact, even seen Danny or Lindsay since the shooting. He'd been faking it, going along with her updates on Danny's recovery as though he knew all about it. She strung him along with a few planted half-truths, pegged him with a look, and then stood up, fists balled on her hips.

"Don, I love you, but you're full of shit. You didn't get shot and fucking _paralyzed_ from the waist down. Danny did. Your best friend, remember? Jess wasn't just taken from you. That bastard took her from all of us. I know you don't want to hear this, but you are not alone. You're _ours_, Don. We're your family. Be an asshole, get angry, get depressed, but we are not walking away. You and Danny need other more than I can even tell you, and _he's_ being an jerk about waiting for you to call him, and _Lindsay's_ at the end of her rope, and you're just drinking yourself into oblivion, don't think I don't know - "

She trailed off, sounding near tired tears herself. 

For a second he wanted to tell her everything. About just waiting for the right moment to ask Jess to marry him. About the shadowy dry crack in Sid's voice as he told Don about the baby that would never be. 

About killing Cade and telling himself he felt no remorse, regardless of his nightmares.

But he couldn't do that to Stella. She'd cry with him, she'd console him, and then she'd march him to Professional Standards and then to the police shrink. He wondered if that wasn't exactly what he wished would happen. It would be easy to say that learning about the baby had been the final push over the edge, but it was more than that. It wasn't a moment of madness. If anything it was a moment of crystal clarity, seeing the sum total of everything he and Jess could never have, could never be to each other, after working their entire adult lives to do some good in the world, and that the human race would be better off without people like Cade in it.

He thought it would be clean and decisive. It wasn't.

"I suppose," he said heavily, after a pause, "I got no right to tell you about what losing people you love does to you."

"You better fucking not."

"Or what?" He shot back, feeling an oncoming smirk for the first time in a couple of weeks.

"Or I withhold _finikia._"

"You wouldn't."

"You wanna try me?" she aimed her finger at his chest. "At the very least go give Lindsay some time off from sitting with Danny. She needs some time with Lucy. And for herself. She doesn't get to take any time off. D'you even know which hospital he's at?"

"Uh. I actually do have it all written down somewhere."

"Uh-huh." Stella took in the slurry that was his apartment. "Gimme your arm." she sighed, and reached for a ballpoint in her bag,

He wandered into Danny's hospital room two days later, showered and shaved, with a greasy paper bag of buttery-warm _pizelles_ and a few seasons of _Red Dwarf_ on a thumb drive.__

_ _They blinked at each other._ _

"You look like shit," they said in unison. 

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Her name was Hannah, and she was a nice looking blue-eyed blonde whose date was being a prick, trying too hard to impress her, and then telling her how lucky she was to have him all to herself all night. Fed up, she'd smiled sweetly, said she had to go to the bathroom, picked up her purse, and kept moving out the back door. She walked straight into Flack, who was ambling down the alley to the subway station after leaving Gracie's Tavern, and they stared at each other before grinning and apologizing.

He'd showed her his badge and offered to walk her to wherever she was going, since a dark alley behind a row of bars probably wasn't a good place for a pretty girl to be. She'd blushed and thanked him, and really, it was ridiculously easy after that. They weren't exactly drunk, but they definitely weren't sober. She told him about her lousy date. He offered to run a crim check on the guy, and she laughed at the silly tale he wove of the insurance frauds, wives in six states, and the string of snot-nosed woebegone children he'd left scattered across the country. 

They came out onto the street. He asked her which train she needed to catch, and she hesitated.

"I know a way to get back at him," she said. "What would piss him off more'n walkin' right under his nose with a nice guy I just met?"

"You think I'm nice?" he frowned clownishly. She giggled.

"You're a cop, ain'tcha?" she asked.

He wondered which small town she'd been raised in. Her freshness was completely unaffected and charming, as, incidentally, was her smile. "You wanna 'nother drink?" he asked. She put her head to one side and looked at him for a moment, and then smiled.

"Sure. Yeah."

Instead, they got a room at the Crystal Court as they walked by. She wasn't at all used to hooking up, but damn, clearly she was enjoying her new life in the big city. Her touch was tentative and sweet, and he was slow and gentle with her. It felt good to take care of someone. She was gone by morning, leaving a little note that said only, "Thanks".

He'd slept, though. He awoke feeling a little clearer in the head, and physically, the better for the human contact, but now he had to contend with Jess in his head all day. He knew damn well it was a concoction of his own mind. Cheating on Jess had never entered his mind, not once, and he was still crazy in love with her, but Jess was gone, so...was it cheating? It had been clear from the first that Hannah, while attractive in her own right, was also as different from Jess as could be.

If Jess were alive, she'd have sandblasted the skin off him verbally, removed all traces of herself from his apartment, and never spoken to him again. Was that what he was trying to get not-alive Jess to do? Holler at him, give him hell, and then get out of his head and leave him alone?

He found himself trying to shut Jess out of his head nearly as much as Cade. If only they'd all just go away, he thought during the day. At night, he found himself panicking, wondering if he could still reach out and feel her nearby, as if she would come from her bath at any moment and crawl in beside him. 

But if he could still feel connected to Jess, as if she had never left, didn't it mean that Cade could touch him, too?

Hence the vodka, and when he was sick of the sting, the Ballantyne’s, and then the straight-to-hell Jack Daniels.

And then there was Jill, who'd invited him back for coffee, after he'd interviewed her about a shooting near her apartment, and artsy Efrat with her many social causes, and Serena, the vivacious Korean grad student who'd been hanging out at Gracie's since she moved nearby...

Really, any girl who didn't look like Jess would do.

He ran into Devon one day, running errands in downtown Manhattan. Strangely, his spirits sank, and he felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Devon's warm smile and flying hug were genuine, and he realized that while she must have heard about the female cop recently killed in action, she probably didn't know it had anything to do with him. Thousands of cops in the city, after all. He didn't try to explain his distance, but he couldn't lie to her. And he certainly couldn't lie with her, not anymore, and not in this state. No matter the look in her eyes, or the quirk of the corner of her mouth when she asked him what he was up to for the rest of the afternoon. He made his excuses and promised to call her sometime.

He swore he heard Jess snickering at him.

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It wasn't that he'd expected Monroe _not_ to say anything, but he still felt a wave of irritation as Mac approached. What was so wrong about not opening fire on a suspect? The girl was unhinged. She was going for suicide-by-cop. Monroe had her tackled and on the ground in seconds. Nobody died. Wasn't that the point?

He felt a cold wave in his stomach as the thought process of that moment echoed in his head. _ You shoot her, there'll be an automatic inquiry, like always. And you think they won't ask about Cade? They know. Everyone knows. They'll spin it as revenge for Jess, and say you're an unreliable cop. You shoot this girl, you're done, man. Done._

It was the quiet little voice saying, and would that be such a bad thing? that actually stopped him firing. If he was going down, they'd have to come get him. He wouldn't deliver himself into their hands.

He only wished he knew which voice to trust: the one that rebuked and reviled him all day and pursued him into his dreams, or the faint one that whispered, _you're a good man, and you have good friends around you._

"Don. Everything okay with you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"I'm not convinced."

He eyed him. "Why'd you need to be? Did I do something wrong?"

"It's what you didn't do. Could've got you killed."

He grinned disbelievingly. "Am I being second-guessed for not killing someone?" Mac remained silent, and he prodded: "I thought that was a good thing."

"It is. If it was a choice." Mac's gaze was steady, and Flack looked down as if to check on some papers. "People are concerned about you, Don."

"Tell _people_ I said thanks. But I can take care of myself."

"I wish that was true." Mac said. "If it weren't for Lindsay saving your ass today, we might be having this conversation in an Emergency room. Or maybe not at all."

The cold, shut-it-down reflex he'd learned from his father served him well. "Unless you want to make that official, I got nothing else to say."

Mac held his gaze, unfooled. Flack picked up his files and walked away.

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Something was going to give soon. He felt it.

He couldn't keep living in a gray swirl, not forever, but in the meantime, it felt so much better to stay tucked away inside his head. Or to keep himself well-buffered against reality. There were moments when he saw himself clearly, and saw how the fragments of his life had fallen like leaves around him, waiting to be swept up and sorted. Generally those moments were followed by an RTO-day of determined drinking, so that even the memory of his father, nodding over the last half-finger of whiskey, was dulled. He'd be sobered up and presentable by the time his next shift rolled around.

He knew it had to stop sometime. He just didn't know how it would come about.

He thought he was being a dignified drunk. He was on days off, after all. Minding his own business, not doing any harm. Perfectly in control, ambling down the subway stairs, navigating the turnstile and the train doors as they slid open. Just minding his own business, smiling politely at an elderly Chinese lady laden with her shopping. She eyed him warily, less than charmed. As did a cute young brunette a few seats down, who glared at him and turned away. Whatever. Not like he had anything to say to them. 

The two wannabe gangstas that got on two stops later couldn't have known who they were about to deal with. He felt them zero in on him, and found himself anticipating a satisfying and completely defensible fight. If they so much as touched him...he carefully set his bottle beside him, in preparation for a quick reaction.

But he was slowed down. He remembered all the moves he was supposed to make, but, as if he were stuck in a dream, the laws of physics were all messed up, and his legs didn't work right. Kicked in the ribs, bashed in the temple, he slid to the ground, and felt more hard, punishing blows to his gut. He reached for the Sig in his ankle holster, but the asshole closest to him kicked it skittering away from him. He managed a clear hard kick to the side of the guy's thigh, and heard him curse as he fell. _Yeah, motherfucker. NYPD._

Things went weird then. He was sure he saw a flick knife, and he somehow couldn't move away, his eyes riveted on the shining blade. Was this it? Stuck like a pig and left to bleed out on the subway, just another drunk? But then he must have been dreaming, because Terrence was there, holding the fallen Sig like a pro and ordering the two punks to drop his wallet and back away. And they did. 

In another blink, he woke on a leather couch in an apartment he'd seen once before, a dreary place that a couple of overly-expensive pieces of furniture did nothing to disguise. Terrence was sitting across from him, watching him with an expression between dread and disgust. Flack raised his head to ask what happened, and the room spun and he started retching. Terence got him on his feet and pointed towards the bathroom. The puking cleared his head a little, but made him painfully aware of his ribs, which seemed to be one large bruise. He pulled up his shirt and confirmed this to be so. If he hadn't cracked a rib, he'd be lucky.

"Why you let yourself get beat down like that?" Terrence asked, and there was real concern in his voice. "That's not mournin'. That's somethin' else." 

Flack couldn't begin to frame an answer, but he was spared, sort of, by the loud knocking of a couple of Terrence's boys. A flash of fear cut through the worry on Terrence's face, and he shut Flack in the bathroom with an injunction to stay quiet. Flack heard the scuffles and loud negotiations, and was glad to be out of it in his current state. Looking out into the open apartment, he spotted his backup Sig Sauer lying on the table, and his stomach turned cold and tight. No-self respecting homeboy would miss the fact that it was obviously law issue. He knew Terrence had taken a lot on, hauling him up here, but the reality slammed into him. Terrence wasn't his informant any longer, but the timing wouldn't make a difference with anyone who had a grudge against him.

But Terrence was up to the task. Within minutes, his two boys were gone again, peaceably, but with muttered warnings. Flack breathed again, and leaned on the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror. Fuck, he was a mess. He grabbed the least grungy hand towel that was slung over a rack, and rinsed it out with plenty of soap before beginning to mop at the laceration on his temple.

"Hey Terrence, this has been fun and all, but you might wanna get some new friends," he called, by way of thanks. "Your boys are like walking parole violations." Silence from the outer room. "What'sa matter, I hurt your feelings?"

Sill no answer. Where was the backchat? "You get sensitive all of a su - "

_Oh, shit._

Mac Taylor, large as life, stood watching him quietly. Flack was acutely aware of how bad he must look. Unshaven, yesterday's clothes, the sour reek of yesterday's alcohol sweating out of his pores. Mac was as immaculately groomed and straight of spine as ever. And coldly, furiously pissed. This was not going to go well. 

They sat down.

He gave Mac the choirboy look he used to use to send his father's blood pressure up. "What you wanna hear, Mac? Just one of those days."

"You can do better than that."

"All right, fine, it won't happen again," Flack rattled off, according to the old, well-remembered script.

"You're damn right. I'm making it official."

Well, it was about fucking _time_ someone did something.

He shrugged and stood up. "Do what you gotta do." he said.

Mac stood up too, and faced him. "Let's be clear." he said, in a voice Flack had never heard before. "Part of me wishes I could take off this badge and settle this another way."

Flack was tempted to push him there, just to make it real. "Get outta my face." He brushed Mac's arm away, remembering too late that Mac kept up his military bearing as a matter of pride. Mac strongarmed him back against the wall like a pesky fly.

"_Hey!_ We're in the middle of a murder investigation, and you go AWOL?"

"I can handle myself." 

He'd apparently reached the petulant stage, which was where he usually went down in flames.

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you're doing here in this apartment?" Mac held up the small Sig. "Is that why I had to get this from Terrence? Is that why I had to have Stella triangulate your phone - and Danny check the ER's to see if you turned up _dead?_"

Stone cold sober, hurting all over, and aghast, Flack couldn't do much more than stare, and then slump back into his chair.

"You can keep telling people you're fine," Mac told him, "but that won't work."

It was an opening. Mac would listen to him. Whatever he felt necessary to do afterwards, Mac would hear him out. Flack had been choking on the truth for months.

"It's been eatin' at me, Mac. When Angell was killed. All I wanted to do was make it right."

"We did that. Justice was served because we _did our jobs_."

"You weren't there, with me and Simon Cade! I stood over that bastard. I looked him in the eyes, and I - "

Mac cut him off. "Whatever happened is between you and your God. _I'm not your priest._ What I do need to know is whether I can count on you."

Mac stared down at him, and Flack could only look helplessly back, and try to control his breathing around the pain in his ribs. As Mac strode out of the apartment, Flack tried to rise, unsure if he should follow him, but Mac was gone in seconds.

Flack sat, feeling sick, disgusted with himself, and alarmed. How easy it had been to just slide under the water and let it close over his head - and how badly he wanted to fight like hell to breathe again, once he was finally called on it.

He clasped Terrence's hand as he left, and promised to send him and his current girl to a nice restaurant for dinner. Not wanting to deal with the harsh afternoon daylight, not wanting to see anyone, he took a cab all the way home, and slunk upstairs to his apartment.

His place was a mess and smelled like a fratboy's dorm room, but that could be dealt with. He might have to make some uncomfortable phone calls about arranging payment for the pile of bills, but everyone could wait a day or two. 

He sat heavily on his couch, and thought, for the hundredth time that week, of exactly what Jess would be yelling at him. He could hear her tone of voice and see the precise angle of her finger, and he wondered if she really might be out there, up there, around here, watching him. Sober, the thought gave him the shakes. No wonder he'd been staring at the bottom of the bottle all this time.

_How the hell would you feel if you knew I'd done something like that?_ she hollered. _We're cops, Flack. We do not deal out justice! I lost a fight, but at least I kept my integrity. That was a wounded man who was never going anywhere but jail. I never asked for vengeance, and you know I never would._

_He was an inhuman hired killer. He killed you, and the baby, and how many others? And how many would he have gone on to kill? He took away the best part of me._

_No - you handed it to him._

In his mind, her voice softened. 

_What's done is done. All you can do is move forward, or be stuck here forever. How long are you going to let this go on?_

 

Much later, after a long shower and an exhausted deep sleep, he realized that Mac had managed to lay out his position - the position all his superiors had apparently chosen to take - as clearly as he could without admitting anything concretely, or damaging anyone in the process.

It was, as Mac implied, between him and God. The NYPD was deep in a state of cultivated ignorance, and nothing would be said. Nothing would be written. No action would be taken. And he realized that the reason he still had a job, acting and looking as he had been doing, was that this was all old hat to the top brass. They knew exactly what level of acting-out to expect from him, and as long as he didn't get into more trouble that they couldn't overlook, they'd simply keep his desk tidy and stop him killing himself until he sat back down again.

What the hell did that say about the Force, that they'd let someone who gratuitously took a life, back within ranks, and even sympathize? What did it say about his father, who must surely have witnessed more than one good cop go down for less, while others walked free? And Cliff Angell, who had been more of a father to him this past year than his own? Flack could never tell him.

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"St. Augustine's Church. May I help you?"

"Hey, Helena. Don Flack."

"Why, hello, dear. It's been a while. Father's around here somewhere - will you hold?"

"'Course."

"Father Grady,"

"Grady. Flack."

"Hey, boyo! You took your own sweet time. H'are ye goin'?"

"Not so good. But I think I've got my head pulled out now. Does Helena still keep those jam cookies in the jar?"

"Oh, for sure. There was some unpleasantness to do with someone suggesting oatmeal, but I think that's all over now."

"Aw, she's a peach."

"She is that. When will I see you?"

"Tonight sometime?"

If Grady was surprised at this sudden desire for a meeting, after a couple of months of silence, he didn't show it, but then, Flack thought, that must be part of his job.

"I'm hearing Confessions 'til nine, but if that's not too late, come on by."

"I'll be there."

* * * * *

"We used to joke about just coming to work one day with wedding bands, and seeing who noticed. And then it wasn't a joke anymore. We were right there. I was just waiting for the right time to ask her. And it turns out she - she was pregnant. Just, like a week...we didn't even know yet."

"Jaysus." Grady swallowed. "You have been walking through Hell."

"We were a team," he said simply. "We were going to go away for her birthday weekend next month. I thought I'd ask her then. You know, do it nice, by the ocean and everything. And we'd have known about the baby by then."

"Maybe she had an idea. Women sometimes do, right from the very beginning."

"I don't know. I doubt it. She took on a hired gun, with only her service weapon, not even a vest. If she knew, I think she'd've hit the floor and tried to work from there. But then, I dunno, that was Jess. If she was gonna go down, she was gonna look him in the eye and go down fighting."

"You haven't begun to let her go."

"Not even close. Coming home, not seeing her there, or her desk at the office...it's like she's just gone away for while. Like I'll wake up one day and she's gonna be there."

"Donnie," Grady said gently, "She's not. That doesn't mean you ever forget. It's a lot of good, you have, to hold onto. Ye've changed since you met her. Hold on to that. But she's not comin' back."

"I know. But I need her. Grady, I need to talk to her so badly..."

Grady reached over for box of tissues and handed it to him.

"Do you talk to her?" the priest asked. "D'ye tell her what you need her to know?"

"No!" Don said, between shaky breaths, "I mean, wouldn't that be crazy?"

"Not at all. Look, Don, you say you haven't let her go. It's very clear you haven't. That means she's still with you, in a very real way. Call it her soul, if ye like, whatever you want, but she's with you still. Talk to her. What if she needs to hear from you, before she can move on? If you were gone, boyo, and she was actin' like y'are, would you leave her be? Not till you saw she was on the mend, if I know you."

"You believe that?"

"I do." Grady was firm. "I believe in the teachings of the Church. But given how attached we are to our earthly lives, I don't think we suddenly just shed them and reappear wherever we're goin', the moment we pass on. If there's a Purgatory, I like to think there's maybe a kinder waystation for Heaven, too. To get our bearings, like."

"That's so not what I need to hear right now."

"What is it scares ye?"

The quiet question shook him to the bone. He swallowed reflexively a few times, and somehow answered Grady back just as simply: "Because I killed the man who killed her. We took the warehouse they were using. They opened fire, and we fired back."

Grady waited.

"I hit him once already. He was already down, he wasn't goin' nowhere. Then I realized it was him. He was the one who killed Jess. And the baby."

Comprehension dawned on Grady's face.

"And here's the thing: I can't even convince myself that what I did was wrong. God knows how many people he killed, or how many more he would have. I've tried to think of his family, what he might have wanted to be when he was a kid - but I can't. He was a stone-cold killer, he killed a cop and I killed him. If I'm honest, what I feel worst about is that I let everyone down. The law, the entire Force, my family...I did just what I've suspected other cops of doing and hated them for. And if any of them know, they aren't saying anything. Don't they care? What the hell have I been fighting for all these years? Shouldn't I be rottin' in a cell? How am I any better than he was?"

"I have the great luxury of lookin' at the balance, and sayin': _because you are_." Grady replied. "Ye've spent your whole workin' life trying to do good. Man, you have to know you're not the only copper to have found himself in the position of having killed a truly evil man without bein' in mortal danger - and to have nobody call them on it. I've talked a few good, decent men through it in my time here. In its way, it's a worse punishment."

"Then what do I do? What the hell do I do? I'm not even fit to be a cop. To go my entire career, my entire life, just waitin' for someone to bust me on it and run to the papers?"

"Of course you're fit to be a cop. How can you know what that man might have done? You knew how dangerous he was. You're going through a terrible reckoning on top of a terrible personal tragedy. Ye've got them so muddled in your head that you can't think straight. But you will. I'm not here to absolve ye - only you and God can work that out - but I will say this: I'm as proud to know you today as I was yesterday. I'm heartbroken for you. And think about this: If the people you respect most, that you trust with your life, have a idea of what happened, and they're keepin' mum, don't ye think they might've already tried you where it counts? Their silence is on their heads, too."

Grady stopped speaking, and looked as though he was having to replay his own words to sort out where they'd come from. Don sat in silence, letting Grady's words sink in. That's why Grady's a priest, and I'm a cop, he thought. 

I hear you," he said. "I hear you."

* * * * *

Within moments of meeting with Mac, the next day, Flack realized that Grady was entirely right. Mac knew everything, and had been as decent as he knew how to be, for as long as he possibly could. It was a terrifying graduation to a new level of his police career. He couldn't help but wonder what acts other cops on the force had had to deal with privately, unable to turn to understanding confreres or legal advice.

He was still a good cop. He knew it. And if making things right for Jess had turned out horribly wrong, then at least he could keep trying to make Jess proud of him, and prove to his colleagues that he was truly back in command. It wasn't resolution. But it was a start.

He wasn't expecting any sign of approval from on high, but he had to admit that bringing in the piece of the jigsaw that gave them the Compass Killer's identity was a nice touch. If Jess had been with him at the end of the day, she'd have thrown her arms around him and kissed him soundly in congratulation, even as he protested it was just his job.

Because, after all, it was.

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"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Why?"

The artist shrugged, examining a bundle of needles under a lens. "Just don't seem very NYPD, is all. Pretty woo-woo, innit? An infinity symbol?"

"Actually," Flack explained patiently, as he stripped off his undershirt, "It's what's on the Métis flag."

"Mighty who?"

"Métis. It's like a, a part-Native group from Canada. Part Indian, part French or Scottish, mostly."

"Really. Huh. You don't look at all like you got blood."

"Not me, my girlfriend's family..." Flack began, and stopped. He took a breath to try to continue, but the guy just nodded. He'd heard stranger reasons by far.

"You want it, you got it, man. Here?" he hovered over Flack's left pectoral with his marking pen.

"Right there. Just the outline, on an angle. This long," he indicated an inch and a half, between his fingers.

A small figure of the timelessness of the few short months they'd had together. The infinite possibilities of the child they would have had. Right where Jess used to rest her head, and listen to his heart. _A solàs mo chroi_.

"Wicked scar," said the artist, eyeing the hilly mass of scar tissue that extended from ribs to hip. "You get shot at?"

"Blown up at."

It was fitting, Flack thought, that this tattoo should be so close to the scar. Wasn't that where it all began? If it weren't for his incapacitation after the bombing, he might never have met Jess.

"Dude," said the guy, impressed. "Hey, you want for this to look flat, or, like, with a 3D twist?"

"Oh, definitely twisted," Flack replied, and cracked a grin.

"So tell me about your girl," the artist suggested, as he set to work.

Flack was surprised to find he was glad to paint a picture of Jess for someone who hadn't had the privilege of knowing her. "Third generation cop. One of the best," he said, "Smart as hell, but funny, and just gorgeous like you wouldn't believe. There's this great story about her, from when she was in training. Just a cadet, still a kid, really. They used to call her The Princess..."

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It was funny, how sometimes the small tests of one's human progress only appeared in hindsight, and other times, there was a large blinking neon arrow pointing to the fact that it was a test.

He was handing out gifts to a room of shrieking children and their parents, along with Hawkes, Danny and Lindsay, all in cartoonish elf hats and scarves. He always did enjoy kids, being a big kid himself, and it was fun to get off his investigative high horse and be silly for a while. He was beginning to laugh more, and he realized that Mac was usually lurking nearby when it happened. Secret Santa indeed: Mac had not only pulled many official strings on his behalf, after Jess' death, but was taking steps to pull the team back together again as a solid unit, CSI and Detectives both, after a hellish year.

He glanced up, and saw Jess watching him on the other side of the room, one hand on her heavily pregnant belly.

He blinked and looked again. There _was_ a woman standing there who looked like Jess from a distance, about seven months along, leaning back against the wall and smiling at a dark-haired toddler knee-deep in shredded wrapping paper. As her daughter jumped and hollered along with the other kids, the woman closed her eyes for a moment, and Flack saw her face crumple.

"Danno, I'll be right back," he called. Danny, more or less steady on his own two feet again, waved a hand in acknowledgement, and kept chatting with a small boy in big glasses.

Flack walked over to the woman. The gift in his hand was labeled "Boy 2-3 years", but he could improvise.

"Hey," he said, "I won't tell Santa if you open this one early."

She gave a half-sob, half-laugh, and smiled at him, taking the gaudily wrapped package, and turning it in her hands. "Sorry. I'm okay. It's just - this is my first Christmas without my husband. Gerry McIntyre, from the 18th precinct."

"Gerry. Yeah. I remember hearing...I'm sorry, Mrs. McIntyre."

"We're having a boy this time. Gerry would've been so...it's just hard."

"Yeah, I know," Flack said quietly. She looked harder at him, and nodded.

"You lost someone?"

"Yeah. In the spring. She was a cop, too. She...she would have been just about as far along as you. For a second there I thought you were her."

"She was the...it was on the news..."

"Yeah."

She didn't cover her mouth, or say "Oh, my God, how awful," or anything he had become used to. She simply gave him a look of deep understanding, and laid her hand on his arm.

"Life has a way of going on." she said. "Whether we want it to it or not."

"I'm beginning to get that." he nodded. He noticed she still wore her wedding ring, and felt a renewed sense of rightness that he'd gotten his tattoo. Something real to hold onto. Mac hadn't taken his wedding ring off for many years after Claire's death, and even now, sometimes kept it in his jacket pocket, for comfort. It didn't matter if some other woman saw the tattoo, someday, and asked him about it. He'd tell them about Jess, and explain that she was part of what made him the man he was trying to be.

"Listen, it's none of my business," he began, "But are you and your daughter okay? You have everything you need?"

She smiled. "We're fine," she said. "I've got a lot of support. I was going to ask you that, actually. Not about having everything you need, but...being okay. You're not used to strangers asking you that, are you? I guess in your job you're usually the one taking care of strangers. But once you've been there, you can always see it in other people."

"I'm lucky," he told her, "Those people up there in the stupid hats like mine? They're part of my family. I know they're thinkin' about Jess, too, this Christmas. And that guy over there, in the black suit, he's a sneaky son of a bitch, and if he catches me in a mope, he'll drag me back feet-first."

She laughed. "Good. You know, I have to say - lots of people have come to check on me, over the last few months, but just now when you came over, it was the first time I could honestly feel that I was okay, for real. Not just saying the words, or figuring I'd get there someday."

"Me too, actually," he said, realizing as she spoke that it was the truth. "Spirit of the season, maybe?"

"Or maybe we were both put here so we'd have a chance to realize that we're not just going to be okay _someday_. I miss Gerry something awful. But I'm okay."

He nodded thoughtfully, and for a moment, he stood with her and watched the children. He doubted he'd ever see Gerry's widow again, but that was fine. He had a strong feeling she was right about the reason for their meeting.

He had no doubt he would get thoroughly toxic and cry his eyes out at some point during the holiday, like the big sentimental sap Jess had proven him to be, but that was all right. He'd go to dinner with his mule-stubborn family, whom he loved irrationally, despite everything, and he'd think of some Jess story he hadn't told them a dozen times before. He'd call Cliff and Chérie on Christmas Day, after making his command appearance at Mass at Grady's church, and tell them he was thinking of them. And he'd call Sam every day, and somehow they'd haul each other through the holidays. 

Because that's what human beings had always done, from the very beginning. Muddle through together, as Grady would say.

Somewhere, far down the road, his children waited, the family he would come home to. He couldn't see the way to that place, from where he stood, and he didn’t want to. But for the first time since Jess' passing, he could accept that it was there, and that it would appear when it was meant to. Life did have a way of moving on. And Jess would have his hide if he didn't keep moving with it. There was too much work to do, and a city to keep safe, and people to watch out for.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he agreed. "Things are actually...pretty good."

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Epilogue

October 2012

Amy DaSilva was five and a half years old when she died, with a puzzled look on her face, her little life slipping away right under Flack's bloodied hands.

_That's the second kid that's died on me. We're supposed to be able to deal with this crap, but God, sometimes I don't know how..._

It might be time to call Rick and Aislin again, he thought. Jess' brother and sister-in-law were close friends of his now, drawn together both by loss and mutual liking, and a shared understanding of a life spent in emergency services. As EMT's, they sometimes lost people, innocents and gang-bangers alike. They'd understand.

He stared blankly at his computer screen.

His statement on Amy's accidental shooting had been taken, and Senator Hamilton's interview was out of his hands now, being transcribed by the clerks. His constables had finished uploading the file documents onto the server, and the Court Liaison clerk would send it over to the prosecutor's office in the morning. There was nothing to do unless he wanted to crack open some other current file or cold case, but he knew that after nineteen hours without a letup, he would hardly be an asset to any investigation.

Home was not a a good option though. Too quiet, and he didn't feel like blotting it out with overnight TV or a shoot 'em up video game. Not tonight. He'd do himself an injury if he tried to work out this exhausted, and there wasn't anyone around for a drink. Danny was home with his girls, exactly where he needed to be, Mac couldn't drink with all the meds he was on, and everyone else was sensibly home in bed.

"Hey," said a voice. "Thought you were off today."

He jumped. Jamie loped towards him through the bullpen in black jeans, killer boots that somehow looked both classy and deadly, and intriguingly, something lilac and fluttery under a neatly-tailored black leather jacket. Her hair was a riot of messy waves around her face, but she swept them back and did something complicated with a hair clip as she walked, that turned her into put-together professional again. He couldn't think of a good reason not to watch her, so he did.

"You on the grave, Lovato? It's one in the freakin' morning."

"Nah, I'm on RTO. Just got back from dropping off my girls after a night out. Thought I'd see if there was anything new on Lindsay before I went home."

"She's fine, or she's gonna be. She's back home now, but it'll probably be a week or two before she's back. Takes more than a cracked skull to stop a Messer. Even a Messer by marriage."

"That's good news. So how some you're still here?" she asked, leaning her hip against his desk. She crossed her arms in a jarringly familiar way and looked down at him. Apparently this was not a time for banter or deflection.

"Shitty, shitty day. You heard about Amy DaSilva, I take it."

"Yeah. I'm so sorry, Don. That's about as bad as it can get," she said softly. She pulled herself up slightly and went on: "So you're stuck between going home and beatin' yourself up some more, or working till you fall asleep at your desk and try to blame being a fuckin' miserable dick tomorrow on a sore back."

It wasn't a question. He glanced up at her, and then wondered why he should be surprised. Jamie played at being a sweet little badass of a cop, but she was a family girl and a fiercely protective friend. She watched her people very carefully.

"Something like that," he agreed quietly, "But yeah, I guess I gotta take off sometime."

"D'you gotta go straight home?" she asked. "It's my night off, and I ain't even had a single drink. I've been playing babysitter all night."

He took a deep breath and hesitated, and felt Jess in some dark corner of his mind, rolling her eyes at him and mouthing _GET ON WITH IT_.

"I know just the place for an Irish coffee." he suggested. Jamie flashed her dimples at him like he'd got the right answer, and he felt a flutter he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

He got to his feet, reached for his jacket, and walked with her to the door, grinning like a damn fool as she pasted him about his neverending Irishness, every step of the way.

+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so at long, long last this tale is done. 
> 
> I had thought I would tell you all about Jess' surprise wedding (on the beach, of course) at Rockaway - her return to school, Don's promotion to Sergeant, and the arrival of Sadie and Tommy. To go deeper into Sam and Grady's friendship and the decisions they helped each other make, and even how Lucy Messer's first major preschool tantrum turned into a budding career as a peewee ice-hockey player. But it'll keep. There's only so much sugar a person can take, and the canonical story - not the Wrinkle-in-Time version in which Jess lives and everything is beautiful - needed closure at last.
> 
> So here, finally, is the last chapter, with my sincere thanks and respect to the actors and writers that made it so damn easy to love these characters, and so hard to let them go.


	9. Calling All Angels - Beach Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a full chapter, but some little vignettes from the "Jess Lives!' storyline that wanted OFF my hard drive...in the wake of CSI:LV ending, it seems like a good time to tie up loose ends.

TITLE: Calling All Angels (Donnie Darko remix)  
AUTHOR: fixomnia  
PAIRING: Flack/Angell  
RATING: It's an M. Adults dealing with adult things.  
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.

The final snippets from the storyline in which Jess lives and our heroic duo rides off into the metaphorical sunset.

\---------------------------------

  


Chapter Six

  


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Calling all angels,  
Calling all angels,  
Walk me through this land,  
Don't leave me alone...

\-- Jane Sibbery, "Calling All Angels"  


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After three interminable days testifying in a stuffy courtroom at the height of a New York July, with hours of case review and preparation after each days’ session, Flack was finally released as a witness at the Friday lunch recess. He made a beeline for Jess' apartment, willingly but exhaustedly, as limp and damp as his once-starched shirt, and wondered how much of a help he'd actually be to her. Even with a good AC unit, packing up an apartment in summer was hot, fussy and emotionally draining. 

Arriving, he found Jess frankly stripped down to her camisole and panties, and an icy-cold Sleeman's in her outstretched hand as she greeted him with a grin. He kissed her and felt reborn. He quickly shed all but the essentials himself, and they chatted and passed the bottle, surveying the work still to be done, and laughing together like excited kids.

"Day this hot, when we were kids, we'd be out in the back yard with squirt guns," he said, as they resumed packing up Jess' bedroom. "Maybe I shoulda brought us a couple." 

Jess gave him an affectionate grin, complete with nose-wrinkle - she'd been doing an awful lot of that lately, which gave him a nice case of adolescent giddy flutters.

"Loaded with chocolate syrup?"

He blinked. "Oh, now _that's_ going on the list."

"You wouldn't say that it if was your damage deposit on the line." she pointed out, sensibly.

"I dunno, Jessie. You, dripping with chocolate on my dining table, versus my deposit? I might have to shell out for a couple silver candlesticks. Fancy tablecloth. Make it worthwhile, you know? Hell - " he grinned, getting into the spirit of the thing, "I'd wear a tux for that."

Her eyes had grown wide and dark, but she managed to summon up a half-hearted, "Forget that I outshoot you more often than not, Flack?"

His grin became a little more wicked. "Everybody wins."

She threw a neatly-rolled pair of socks at his head, and he chuckled and ducked into the back of her closet.

"You got a guitar? You never said." He lifted the case down onto the floor, and opened it to reveal a pale blonde semi-acoustic. He whistled softly. "A Gibson?" he asked. "I didn't even know you had a guitar, and you got a _Gibson_? You play this thing?"

Jess looked up from within a horseshoe of packing boxes with a rueful smile. 

"Not much anymore." she said. "I used to be pretty good. My brother Martin passed that on to me when he got his electric. I fooled around with it for a couple of years, but you know how patient I am." She sighed. "Just something I always thought I'd get around to doing more of. I'll see if Martin wants it back for his kids. Cal's hitting thirteen. He'd probably be into it."

At the sight of the guitar, a slight shadow had fallen over her face. Flack took in her expression for a moment, and straightened up. "You sure?" he asked. He shoved a box aside with his foot, to sit with her against the wall. "Looks to me like you're not done with it yet."

"Yeah." She shook her head thoughtfully. "I think it's just the thought of all the years I've been here. All the stuff I thought I'd do. I _did_ want to practice more. And I wanted to run the New York Marathon by now. And have more courses done for school. That, and I don't want all my crap to crowd you out of your apartment. Gotta start thinking like a responsible married lady."

"You still got a few months left of single life," he said. "And it's _our_ apartment. You're on the lease and everything now."

She leaned into him, and he tugged her closer to kiss her softly. He pulled back to look at her for a moment, and then kissed her again, rather less softly. After a token protest about it being too hot, and the piles of stuff still to be gone through, she smiled and melted against his chest, her tongue finding his eagerly. The sensation of her skin against his never failed to get him going. And the way she moved, showing him where she needed his touch most...

"Missed you," he murmured, into the curve of her neck.

He found the hotspots down her spine, under her ribs. She writhed under his fingers, her pleasure escaping in breathless little pants. With barely a thought, he skimmed her camisole over her head. She wriggled out of it and went for his mouth in a reckless, hungry kiss that left him dazed.

"The packing..." he muttered, teasing.

"It's been three whole _days_," she said. "Fuck the packing." 

He ducked his head and licked along her collarbone to her throat, salty-spicy and intoxicating, blatantly feeling up her soft breast and enjoying the hell out of it. She arched closer, pushing him down to the floor and stretching out over him.

"Now who's being irresponsible?" he asked. His mouth closed over the peaked nipple she teased him with. His cock pulsed at the pleasured sound she gave, her smooth thigh sliding between his.

"You started it." 

"Did not. Who's been prancing around in her underwear this whole time? Tell me you didn't plan it." He snapped the elastic at her hip. She pulled back and stuck out her tongue at him. He laughed. "Gimme that."

She did, kissing him all too briefly, and smiled to hear his grumble as she pulled away. Her soft tongue and nibbling teeth over his sensitized skin struck white-hot sparks of desire like flint on steel, and his mind fuzzed over as she took his mouth again. Then her nails dragged lightly up the front of his bare thigh and she traced his hard length through his shorts with a finger, and squeezed, and he stopped breathing.

"God," she said, "I've been going fucking crazy. You remember those last few days before we got together? Like that. All over again."

God, yes, he remembered. And he vividly remembered that first night together, in this very apartment. Stumbling in from the hallway. Crashing together against the wall, half out of their minds after a year of looking, teasing and wanting. The taste of her mouth, her skin, and the sure touch of her hands on him driving him crazy. Falling upon her bed, seeking every inch of skin, drinking in every response. His fingers twisting and curling up inside her, her back arching, his mouth on her nipples teasing and tasting till her climax broadsided her into a keening, gasping mess, and she grabbed at his shoulder, his arm, anywhere she could reach, till he filled her in one shattering thrust, nerves sparking and muscles twitching with the intensity. Finally coming back to earth together, bared to the cooling air and each other, keeping each other awake, giving and taking and giving more, till there was a streak of light over the eastern sky...

He groaned at the memory, as fresh as if it was yesterday. His seeking fingers brushed over her panties. 

_ Christ _ ...

"Jess, you're wet through."

She liked lighter touches best, as he well knew, but today she shied like a deer and gasped at the slightest contact. He gaped in sudden realization. "Oh, Jesus. _You shaved_." 

No wonder she'd been preoccupied. This was new...

She arched into his curious fingertips, her teeth bitten into her plush lower lip. Her eyes opened and fixed on his, black and hazy. "_Prends-moi_."

He rolled over and pulled her to her feet, tugging at her panties as they moved toward the bed.

 

Much later, they lay stickily and contentedly together, enjoying the evening breeze from the open window on overheated skin. She lay drowsing on her stomach, replete and hollowed-out with pleasure, right where she'd tumbled after he'd finally taken her, thoroughly and completely, on her knees. He trailed his fingers idly up and down the rose-trellis that ran from between her finely-carved shoulder-blades to the small of her back.

"You know," he began softly, "Maybe you should hold onto that guitar. Maybe someday you'll want to play again, you know, for the kids. Not Cal and Annie. Ours. One day."

She went very still for a moment, and then rolled her head on her arms to look at him.

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Bit scary."

"Scary-good. But still scary. I know if it happened sooner than we planned, we'd make it work out. Somehow. But Donnie, I'm not there yet."

"Me neither. We're in enough deep water as it is, getting married so soon."

"D'you think it's too soon?" she asked seriously, "I mean, we've got all the time there is. Living together's going to be a big change as it is. Having you go through all my closets and back corners is freaky enough, even if I _know_ there's nothing horrible in there."

"I like your back corners. And I already know where your naughty drawer is," he teased her. "I should thank your mother for teachin' you to share your toys."

"You do, and I'll tell her which ones _you_ like," she returned, without much concern.

He leaned over and smacked her gently but squarely on the ass, and she shrieked in umbrage, and giggled.

"Jerk," she said fondly, as he kissed the sting away.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Seriously, babe, I don't gotta know every little thing to know you're who I wanna be with."

She rolled over at that, and snuggled against him. "Me, too," she said, looking up. "And I have to admit, even if my sense of independence is taking a hit at the thought of moving into a guy's place - I do feel like it's already home. You always made me so welcome there, right from the beginning."

"You always were," he said, "'Specially if I'm gonna come home to you pullin' stunts like that. Holy shit." He blew out a breath. "That's gonna come back to me at the worst possible times, you know."

She grinned. "So it worked for you, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"I actually think I do." She kissed his shoulder. "Nap for a bit? Then a bit more packing. It won't be so hot after dark, and I still want to get a bit more done today."

"Work, work, work," he agreed happily. "Hey, Jess? What do guys do when they wanna spring a surprise like that on their girlfriends?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't really know. Appear at the door in a nothing but an apron and a cowboy hat, and say 'Honey, I made dinner and did a couple loads of sheets and towels?' I know that'd get some girls going...but you? I mean, I'd love it, but it's not your style of sexy." She kissed him and smiled. "You'll figure something out."

"Count on it." he said, lazily nuzzling down between her breasts.

"That'd be more of a Danny-and-Lindsay thing, I think," she continued thoughtfully, stroking his hair.

He froze. Then felt the peals of laughter erupting from her belly before she even made a sound.

"Evil," he muttered.

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He didn't know the man's name. There hadn't been time to search for ID, let alone scout around for mouth shields and resuscitation pumps, and all that stuff they were supposed to use. Less than four minutes had passed since the man had been sent flying by a taxi, and the ambulance pulling up – two hundred and thirty seconds in all – but it felt like he’d been breathing for the guy, with Danny keeping him locked in a C-spine for stability, for hours.

He stood up with a creak in his knees as the EMT’s took over the work. Danny came to stand beside him, silent for once in his life, smelling of the blood he was covered with. Three techs deftly strapped the man onto a spine board and slid a stretcher under him. They barely looked at the detectives as they loaded the man into the ambulance, but one flashed them a peace-out through the rear window as they took off, sirens blaring.

He and Danny let themselves be driven to the back of the precinct in an unmarked car. There was no point in walking around looking like they'd just left a massacre. 

He was scrubbed clean as a schoolboy, in a fresh suit, and frowning at a blank incident report form on his computer monitor, when Jess came striding around the corner and headed straight for his desk.

"You heard," he sighed, sitting back.

"Yeah," Jess smiled, sadly. She perched on the edge of his desk, as usual. "Donnie..."

"The guy died." Flack intuited, sitting back and regarding her.

"Yeah. His name was Mark Dolan. He was a Master's student at NYU. You guys did everything right, Don. There was nothing anyone could've done to save him. Stella's on her way back now. Case opened and closed."

His shoulders slumped a little. "Just crazy, it all happening right there in front of us. Like we were all meant to see it, or something."

"You getting all existential on me, Detective?" 

He smiled at that. "Maybe? Who knows. I tell you, though, one thing kept going through my head. I know we gotta do everything we can to save 'em. I know that. But I knew he was dying, right there. And I know he knew it, too. I just wanted to stop all the messin' around and hold his hand or something, you know? Give him some peace and quiet on the way out."

Jess nodded seriously. "Rick and Ash say that all the time. But it's not our call when someone's time is up. How do we know if they might've been saved unless we've exhausted all the options?"

He regarded her for a moment, and reached to twine his fingers through hers, resting on top of her blue-jeaned knee. She tilted her head to one side, curious, and waited. Unsure of how to begin, he started anyway: "Say, Jess..."

She was a step ahead of him, as usual. "We should go over our living wills. Soon. I know you've got one. My parents have a copy of mine."

"Yeah. All that stuff."

"There's no rush," she reminded him, ignoring the interested glances of the officers around them. "We can work out all the details before the wedding, or we can just figure it out along the way."

"I know. But days like this make me want to get everything sorted as fast as possible."

"Then let's get as much sorted out as we can, so we can get around to enjoying the rest."

"Yeah. If anything's ever gonna happen to me, I want you listed on my life insurance before it does. And _before_ we start racking up any major debt. I know it sounds fatalistic."

"It's prudent. We're cops. I have those same thoughts." She leaned forward and said, in a mock-serious voice: "If you're gonna leave me with three kids, two dogs, an SUV and a mortgage, you better believe you're ponying up child support, even if you _are_ dead."

He chuckled wryly at that, knowing the grain of truth that existed within her words, and squeezed her hand before letting go. "Done deal, Detective," he told her. She flipped him a look that clearly said: _You did good today_, and sauntered out. He sat and watched her go, feeling the familiar rush of gratitude for the presence of her in his life, and for pulling him out of his head when he needed it.

He realized he was smiling wistfully after her when Hanover snorted. 

"Seriously, man? You guys are too much to be real," Hanover said. "Can't imagine what it's gonna be like _after _you're married."

Flack looked up and thought for a moment. "We pretty well are," he replied, shrugging, and picked up the phone to call Stella.

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"You trust me, don't you?" Stella asked, a pout in her voice.

"With my life," Jess agreed, "But this is my wedding we're talking about. Either we've been driving in circles, or we're somewhere in Jersey by now. Or Pennsylvania? I'm pretty sure Don isn't shipping me back to Montreal."

Stella merely made a comforting sound, and checked Jess' blindfold again.

"Isn't kidnapping still illegal?"

"Ye-e-es," Stella agreed. "However, I don't think there's any case law that covers this particular scenario."

"Which is?"

"Sit tight, kiddo."

Jess grumbled something rude in French, and sat back against the car seat. From the front, she heard Lindsay and Danny conversing quietly, and then the tones of a cellphone call being placed.

"Yo," Danny said, "It's us. We're five minutes away. Package is - " he shifted and turned to look back at Jess, "Conscious, responsive and pissed off. Recommend red wine and chocolate of some sort upon arrival."

Lindsay giggled, and in her car seat between her Aunt Jess and Aunt Stella, little Lucy clapped her hands and giggled too, though she didn't understand what the grownups were talking about.

Jess heard a laugh on the other end of the phone, which she recognized.

"Rick!" she called, "_Jean-Richard Augustine_! _Faites-tu en partie_?"

Danny must have held up the phone, because Jess heard her eldest brother’s childhood Chiac, "_J't’aime ben, ‘tite _– we’ll see you soon!"

A few minutes later, the car slowed and stopped. "Stay there," Stella instructed her. "We have some things to move first."

Jess sighed and gave a resigned little wave. She heard everyone climbing out, and then Danny unbuckling Lucy, and she was sorely tempted to rip off the blindfold.

The thought hit her that Don was _so _getting blindfolded himself tonight, in retaliation. Any irritation quickly evaporated. Rather, she sat quite happily and thought up various things to do to her fiancé, both tonight, and approximately thirty hours later, when he would be her husband...

They'd planned to hold their September wedding ceremony in the Angell's maple-frocked garden, where Cliff and Chérie hosted their regular Sunday drop-in brunches. It would be a small, casual affair, with close friends and family. Her four brothers, their wives and various kids were either already at the house, or would be driving in for the day. Their police colleagues would attend either the ceremony or the reception as time and cases allowed, and since both families understood cop-time very well, dropping in and out would not be problematic. They would just enjoy what time they had together.

The only wrinkle had been contingency-planning in case of a Flack blowout: Nathan, Sam and their parents were all planning on attending, which could end in anything from polite but chilly greetings to a full-on Irish row. Given the small forward steps they had been taking on the past year, Don just hoped they'd all behave themselves for his mother’s sake. To that end, Cliff had offered to invite a few of Jess' honourary uncles in the NYPD, retirees who also knew Don Flack Sr., to collectively whisk Flack Sr. away to swap war-stories if he became difficult. 

Tom Grady, who was to officiate the service, merely smiled and reminded Don that he'd known them all for a long, long time, and if he as a priest wasn't worried, then the groom shouldn't be, either.

"Okay, Jessamine, I gotcha. _Viens-toé_."

It was Rick's voice and hand reaching for hers, her eldest brother steadying her as she climbed out of the car, sliding her fingers along the doorframe to orient herself. She stood and twisted her spine from side to side, cramped from the long ride.

"I hear the sea," she said faintly. She thought she remembered the particular scent of the air around them, but then, ocean beaches often smelled the same.

"_Oué_," he said, with an audible grin in his voice. "_Martin, aides-moé_."

Her big brothers wrapped an arm around her from each side, and led her along a hollow-sounding wooden path.

"Shoes off," said Martin. "Trust me, you want to go barefoot here. Two steps down."

"Okay..." she kicked her sandals off, and felt warm sand under the soles of her feet as they continued.

A few steps later, they stopped. Jess felt, rather than heard, the others nearby, and as her brothers stepped away, she felt Don's arm around her shoulders. He bent to kiss her cheek. 

"Ready to see?" he murmured in her ear. She nodded, with a sudden rush of excitement.

Don slipped her blindfold off, and Jess blinked. And her mouth fell open.

They were at Aislin's parents' property in Rockaway Beach, an original 1800's colonial house with a semi-private beach, and a wooden boardwalk that ran above the sand-line, linking several houses. Small-craft marine piers jutted out at regular intervals, some with small sailboats or motorboat bobbing quietly at anchor. Under an early September sunset, pale amber sand rippled in smooth undulations from the boardwalk down to a quiet lapping sea.

At the edge of the sea stood a shelter - not a pop-up storebought one, but an honest-to-God little breezy wooden pavillion, with pine boards laid on the sand for a floor, and others leading to it. The supports and flat roof were twined with ivy, and sheer white drapes drifted in the sea breeze. The back of the pavillion looked towards the sea, and on the beach, on either side, were a couple dozen white patio chairs and blankets for guests to sit upon or children to sprawl upon.

It was as simple, natural and elegant as Jess hadn't even dared to dream of, having given up her fantasy of a beachside wedding in the practical reality of a perfectly suitable parental garden.

"You in a comfy white sundress, barefoot on a warm beach, I think you said?" Don asked, with such a pleased smirk that she could only pull him down for a kiss. "I know you already got the dress, but at least I could give you the beach. Or borrow it for you." She grinned and kissed him again, more than a little choked up, and heard murmurs of fond approval from around them.

"Ash - " she looked around for her sister in law, who was standing with Rick, a small blonde form beside his towering self. "This is - Oh, my God, this is perfect! How did you - no, never mind, I don't even want to know yet - thank you! Just thank you!"

"You just wait for the wedding, honey," Aislin said, hugging her tightly. "Now look, we wanted you to see it the way it'll be tomorrow, but we're going to pack up some of this onto the porch overnight. We've brought the rest of the gear down from your folks' place already. They're going to drive down in the morning, and the other guests will start arriving around two, just like we planned for your parents. You and Don have the beach house tonight and all of next week if you want it. It’s all stocked up. We know you're going to Ireland next year but we wanted you to have _some _sort of honeymoon right away."

"We're staying in a B&amp;B further along," Martin said, gesturing at himself, Rick and their wives, "And Dom and Jerome's crew are staying at Dad and _Maman's_. If you really want to do the whole stay-apart-before-the-wedding thing, we’ve got plenty of room with us, but…"

“No, no,” Jess managed, “’S’all right. We were going to take over _Maman’s_ guest room anyway tonight. She’s the only one who might have cared.”

“Even our priest knows we’ve been living together for months - I think that ship sailed.” Don added.

“We figured as much. We’ll get out of your hair. Try and get some rest!”

Her brothers nodded cheerfully and began stacking the rows of folding chairs, chatting with their wives, eager to enjoy a rare weekend off together.

"And _we_ just came for the roadtrip and to help kidnap you." Lindsay said, squeezing her hand before scooping up a squealing, sand-streaked Lucy – and the little sundress that Lucy had quickly shed and was now trailing behind her in one hand. Stella waved cheerfully as they returned to the car. “See you tomorrow!”

Jess, still breathless and gaping, could only wave weakly as she and Don were suddenly left alone. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her back against his chest. "Was it worth being kidnapped?" he murmured in her ear.

"Oh, my God. So worth it. It felt like we were driving in circles - but I guess we really did do a big circle, coming all the way out here," she observed. "Wait, we're here overnight? Do I have any stuff?"

"Everything you need," he assured her. "And Stella will pick up anything else you want if I forgot it. You didn't notice I had an extra bag in with me when I went to pick up my suit, couple days back?"

"I guess not..."

"That's my calm, rational, not-at-all-crazy bride," Don said, and kissed the top of her head.

Jess twirled the satin blindfold around her finger, turning to face him, "Careful, now," she murmured so that only he could hear, "You like me crazy, don't you?"

She felt him shiver as she ran the satin over his lips.

"And just so you know," he said, leaning down to whisper, "Ash tells me there's nobody to hear us anywhere nearby, this time of year."   


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Jess approached the small table on the bistro's sidewalk patio. Cast golden in summer sunshine, Stella looked up from her phone, with the same friendly grin that Jess remembered from their first meeting.

"Hey!" Stella said. "Perfect timing. I ordered you white, okay?"

"Thanks," Jess said, sitting across from her. "Ready to order? I'm starving."

"So nice to eat with another girl with a healthy appetite," Stella said appreciatively. "May our shadows never grow less."

Jess glanced at her quickly, but Stella was only looking for a server. 

Not needing to consult the menu in their favourite luncheon spot, they quickly ordered. Stella sipped her wine and looked across at her. "Okay, spill it. You don't just call for a drop-everything lunch date for no reason," she said. "What's up?"

"Well. It looks like I'll be graduating sooner than I thought," Jess plunged in, toying with the stem of her glass. "You know I've been taking a couple of courses a term? It's going great, but it's way too slow. So I'm taking leave for a year and a bit, to finish up my Crim degree. Maybe more if I get into grad school right after. It's all arranged. I've talked to HR, and Sythe is signing off my leave request as I speak. I wanted to tell you right away."

Stella looked surprised, but pleased. "Wow," she said. "I'm impressed. Probably a great time to do it. You always said you wanted to get out of the field and switch to policy work before you started a family. I mean, maybe I'm assuming..."

"No, you're right," Jess agreed. "That's it exactly." 

She took a breath, and took a sip of water, to stall for a moment. This was the hard part. She knew Stella would be genuinely happy for her, but she also understood a great deal that Stella left unsaid about her own life.

"See, if I go full-time for the next term, I'll be able to do the rest of my degree from home, online, and that's why theory courses are so great, because I'll be able to finish them - "

"While you're on Mat leave," Stella breathed, her eyes widening. "That's it, isn't it?"

Jess nodded madly, grinning like an idiot. Stella took her hands and squeezed hard, grinning back.

"Oh, honey, that's great news! Lindsay’s due any day now, and now you! But you can't be far along. Anything bigger'n a peanut would show on you."

"Peanut is exactly what the OB-GYN said yesterday," Jess said, "Seven weeks. I know everyone says to wait till the second trimester to tell people...but I figure, I'm ridiculously healthy, and if anything goes wrong, you know - I'd want my close friends to know what's going on. I'd want that support. But I'm not worried."

Stella let go her hands, looking more than a little misty. "Whatever you need. Anything. But you're right, I don't think a person could get any healthier than you. And Don? Is he over the moon?"

"Oh, well past Jupiter," Jess grinned. "He wants a whole hockey team."

"Nothing wrong with that, except we'll miss the hell out of you if you keep going off on leave."

"I wouldn't worry. I told him since I'm housing the factory, I say we build one and see how it goes. Two or three, I'm game. Maybe four. And don't you even think about missing me."

"You better believe I'll be there, kiddo. Every step of the way." 

Their lunches arrived. Jess' stomach rumbled hungrily, and then lurched, as she looked down at her colourful plate. Her turkey club on a baguette was nestled, open-faced, alongside a generous green salad with plain dressing on the side, as she'd requested. It looked perfectly delicious except...

"Okay?" asked Stella.

"Yeah. I guess Peanut doesn't like bacon anymore," Jess grinned wryly, performing a quick operation on her baguette. "Here. Eat this quick. It's the smell."

Stella nodded in rapid understanding, and munched obligingly. She gestured to Jess' untouched glass of wine. "This calls for a toast," she said. "You need something else. Juice?"

"Green tea, and a ginger-ale, I think," Jess said, pulling a slight face.

"That bad, is it?"

"Not so bad, but smells seem to trigger it. Coffee's out - which would be fine, except that it's everywhere in this city. Red meat sets me off. And now, apparently, bacon's out. I mean, really - " she nibbled tentatively at a sprig of arugula. "Can you imagine me and Don with a vegetarian, herbal-tea-drinking kid?"

"Maybe just to rebel..." Stella mused. "So, is Don reading every baby book there is?"

"Worse. He's been grilling Danny and Lindsay all morning. Lindsay's not at all shy about real-life delivery details, which has been great, actually - but I honestly thought Don was going to ask to be there when she delivers next. I stepped in and suggested we take Lucy for baby day instead. A few Messer-sized tantrums should bring him back to reality."

"For a while, anyway. You know he'll just teach Lucy to swear in Gaelic."

"Oh, he’s done that already. Called it his first duty as an Uncle."

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"Isaac Frederick Ambrose," said the Chancellor.

Isaac grinned and blushed, looking closer to twenty than thirty-two, and got up to march to the podium.

"Hamish Dougall Andrews."

There was a smattering of catcalls as Hamish strode across the stage, very obviously sporting a kilt and sporran under his robe. 

"Jessica Cécile Angell."

Twelve steps to the podium. Twelve years of high-speed momentum, from excited raw teenaged cadet to Detective, wife, mother of two and Master of Criminology. And yet, she thought with an inward grin, the uppermost thought in her mind was _thank God for nursing pads_. Feeding time was drawing nigh and her breasts were starting to ache.

The Chancellor shook her hand and congratulated her as she accepted her degree. She thought she heard Don and Cliff give a muffled cheer from their seats in the crowd, but surely they were too reserved to do such a thing in public?

She began to breathe as she walked off the stage, and into the curtained-off section at the side. It was done. She had her Master's, and unlike her last Convocation three years ago, during which Sadie had cried nonstop and had to be carried out, neither Sadie nor three-month-old Tommy had so much as whimpered. This time, Sadie and her Grand-mère were quietly busy with a new colouring book, and though Tommy was fast asleep, strapped snugly against his father's chest, he'd wake soon, and he'd be hungry.

Convocation protocol stated that she should walk around the back and retake her seat from the rear of the stage, but nobody would mind if she didn't. They knew she needed to get back to the baby. Don would come find her in the University botanical garden, as they'd planned.

She pulled off her graduation robe, folded it over her arm, and kept walking, behind the great bowl of the outdoor amphitheatre, and under the rose-covered arched entry into the garden. _Roses and thorns,_ she thought. She recalled how thoroughly world-wise her younger self had felt, as she had been tattooed around her wrist and down her back, lessons of sweetness and pain combined, and she shook her head, smiling. She'd been young and arrogant - but she hadn't been wrong. And she'd been incredibly lucky.

She sat down on an ornate wrought-iron bench, enjoying the quiet and the June sunshine, and thought how strange it was to have nothing to do for a while but watch her kids grow and enjoy being married to her best friend. No more school for six months, when her current maternity leave ended, and she took up her new position in Criminal Intelligence Analysis. She'd have plenty of reading to do, then, a lot of modules and seminars to take through the Academy, and hopefully, a year or two of solid mentorship from both the officers and civilians in the department.

It hit her that she hadn't slowed down, ever, since she was four. Intense was how she functioned best, and she knew she'd be more than ready to return to work when her leave was over, but just at the moment, it felt like a rare gift of breathing space. Everyone around her was safe and healthy, and they knew without doubt just how much she loved them.

"Mommy, look!"

She opened her eyes and laughed. Sadie, her tempestuous small clone, clutched her grandparents' hands and launched herself into the air between them, her short curls flying. Don followed with a wriggling Tommy on his hip. Tommy squealed and held his arms out to his mother, kicking his sleeper-clad feet. Jess lifted him on to her lap, as her daughter swarmed up onto the bench beside them.

"Tommy's hungwy and I am too," Sadie announced, patting Jess' shoulder for attention. "My tummy's making wumbly noises."

"We can fix that," Cliff teased her, "I got my tools in the car."

"No, G'andpa! Tommy needs mommy mi'k. And I need a cheesebu'ger," she insisted, her toddler's lisp crashing into her strong New York vowels. "With f'ench f'ies an' eve'ything. Ab-so-lute-ly eve'ything."

Don howled with laughter as Jess levelled a finger at her father, "That is _so_ your grandchild," she said. Cliff shrugged and looked innocent, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

"Proud of you, Jessamine," he said. She grinned, and Cliff and Chérie took Sadie to chase bugs around the garden so Tommy could feed in peace.

Her son, concentrating on his lunch, regarded her seriously with his clear blue eyes. Don sat beside them, an arm draped loosely over her shoulders, and for a moment, she just breathed. 

His cellphone chose that moment to ring, and they shared a rueful grin. "Sythe," he mouthed to her. "Yes, sir?"

Within the space of a heartbeat, the pause ended, and life snapped back to normal.

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Dear Reader,

And so we leave the family Flack on the cusp of a lifetime of shared adventures. It's been great fun weaving this tapestry around the bits of canon we were given, and I thank each and every one of you for reading along. Like Jess, I am immersed in full-time studies, (though unlike Jess, I'm not expecting anything more than a shiny new degree), and so after a rather long hiatus, this little tribute to two of the NYPD's fictional finest comes to a close. (Really, this time.)

Scribble on, maniacs.

fixomnia    
October 2015   



End file.
